


Anchor

by bluebones



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Cancer, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Oneshot, Phan - Freeform, Phanfiction, Smut, Terminal Illnesses, this is an angst dump please excuse the entire thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-29 02:51:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10844961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebones/pseuds/bluebones
Summary: "...these are what keep me going. These moments, where we’re like that – so close to each other, feeling to the point of pain – they're what it means to be alive."Dan starts getting bruises, and nosebleeds, and a peculiar fever. Cue the news that Phil feels should end the world – Dan is seriously ill, and needs urgent treatment. Their entangled lives grind to a halt while the rest of the world marches on, and Phil struggles to accept that it will continue to do so, with or without Dan.





	Anchor

**Author's Note:**

> 'He's more myself than I am.  
> Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.'  
> -emily bronte, wuthering heights

It started with the bruises.

He'd seen them scattered over Dan’s skin like smudges of paint; like little lavender blooms in a field. Greyish-lilac in colour, and faintly speckled. Oddly pretty, even. They were dotted here and there, in odd places that shouldn’t often get knocked – his palms, his thighs, his stomach. His shins were littered with blotches like he'd been playing football, yet Dan was hardly a sporty person. Upon noticing them, Phil had pointed them out as they slouched on the sofa watching Planet Earth. Dan had glanced down at the mark and wrinkled his nose, dismissing it as clumsiness or some other mishap. Phil hadn’t thought much more of it after that. 

A few days later, in the early evening, a loud curse came from the bathroom and Phil started, calling out. A few thuds sounded, then Dan walked into the room with bloody hands and a bloodier nose. 

‘It just came out of nowhere,’ he’d said. 

They'd found tissues and cleaned up the mess, Dan lying on his back squeezing the bridge of his nose. A small drop of red had fallen onto Phil’s carpet; he didn't mind that much. No amount of bleach was going to get it out. 

Later, he placed a shoe over the mark.

The nosebleeds became a recurrence, to the point where Dan constantly carried tissues and Phil nagged him to visit the doctor. Dan was stubborn and lazy and put up a mean fight, though, and Phil eventually gave up. 

Then, for a week, there was no blood and nothing extraordinary happening, and Phil almost forgot about the incidents until Dan was straddling him on the sofa with his hands on Phil’s skin and their bare chests pressed together.

Pulling away from the breathless kiss, Phil frowned as his hands trailed Dan’s sides. Each rib was a small bump under his fingers. 

‘Have you lost weight?’

Dan shrugged, breathing hard and pressing his lips to Phil’s neck. ‘Dunno. Maybe. Why?’

‘I can feel your ribs. You're thinner.’

‘Good,’ Dan joked, grabbing Phil’s chin and pulling it back up to kiss him. Phil sighed and relented, moving his hands to Dan’s hips. He was quickly distracted as Dan ground down into him and he gasped, revelling in the feeling of Dan’s fingers tugging at his hair. Sliding his hands under Dan’s waistband, he gripped his ass, rocking them back and forth. Dan’s hands were everywhere and the friction between them felt a thousand degrees hot; whatever he had been worried about was quickly forgotten.

They slept in Phil’s bed that night, and Phil lay awake longer than he should have, tracing his finger down the ridges of Dan’s spine as he lay on his front next to him. He knew it was probably just his own hypochondria making him worry, but Dan was definitely thinner. He was all angles now, and his hips seemed to have lost some of their curve. Dan wasn't meant to be bony – Dan was soft and had thighs that gave when you gripped them. His legs had felt skinnier locked around Phil’s waist that evening. 

Phil shuffled closer to him and fell asleep with his hand on the curve of Dan’s back and a frown creasing his brow.

-

Dan was tired. 

That was the main theme of the next few weeks. 

Even the fans had caught on thanks to Dan’s insistence on tweeting every thought that came into his head, and they’d even gotten the hashtag ‘#whyisdantired’ trending. Phil scrolled through it once, just curious to see what the hell it was all about. Many posts suggested he was tiring himself out fucking Phil every hour of the day – Phil had known they'd come up with that eventually. He wondered how many of them were actually being serious.

One comment caught his eye and he read it, chewing on his lip.

_maybe this is going to be like all the fics and it'll turn out he has brain cancer or something lmao #whyisdantired_

It was satire and he knew it, but it still bothered him for some reason. 

He gave himself a shake, closing the web browser and shutting his laptop. _Even if they were half right,_ he reminded himself, _it's me who always dies in the fics._

-

The fever came, and brought with it aching joints and a white face and sweat on Dan’s forehead.

Phil fussed over him, making soup that Dan turned his nose up at and sitting with Dan’s head in his lap for hours while they watched Game of Thrones. The tickle of Dan’s breath against his leg was fast and frequent. A patch of damp warmth suddenly appeared and he looked down, grimacing as he saw the small trickle of blood from Dan’s nose staining his jeans.

‘You will have to go to the doctor’s at some point, you know,’ he commented a few minutes later as he stood outside the bathroom while Dan cleaned up his face. 

‘It's just a virus,’ came a muffled reply.

‘Then you need medicine.’

‘I'm fine.’

Phil rolled his eyes and folded his arms, staring at his feet. He was getting Dan to a doctor if it meant dragging him kicking and screaming. 

Just to be safe.

That's what he told himself.

-

Dan went to the doctor eventually, but insisted Phil stay home.

Halfway through his lunch, Phil’s phone buzzed and he picked it up, a text from Dan popping up on the screen.

coming home now

He sighed in relief, and typed out his own message. 

-Everything okay?

The reply came through almost instantly. 

idk they want blood tests

His brow furrowed.

-Why??

dunno something about white blood cells

Dan came home and climbed straight into his bed, pulling Phil in with him and pressing his face into Phil’s back. Phil had laid there, staring at the clock that told him it was only two in the afternoon. Still, he laced his hand with Dan’s as it wrapped around Phil’s waist and waited for Dan to fall asleep. He'd be free to get up once he had dropped off. 

Dan’s breathing was quick and Phil could feel his burning skin through his shirt. The bed heated up quickly, and Phil shifted uncomfortably, trying to wriggle his way out without disturbing Dan. The arm around his waist tightened and Dan let out a quiet groan and Phil stilled, waiting for the rhythm of Dan’s breaths to slow again. They did – barely – and he managed to slide carefully away and out of the bed.

It was cooler and more comfortable on the sofa, but a small twinge of guilt twisted in his stomach as the harsh, hacking sound of coughing came from Dan’s room.

-

He'd been resisting the temptation to Google Dan’s symptoms for almost a month, and he could feel he was close to giving in.

In truth, he knew all the results would be worst case scenario, and Dan was likely just coming down with a particularly nasty case of flu that had messed with his nose. There was nothing abnormal about his symptoms – it was classic virus behaviour, save for the weight loss and perhaps the bruises. It was truly nothing to worry about. Even so, with a guilty conscience, he unlocked his phone and keyed in the search.

His eyes flicked down the page and he quickly closed the tab, putting his phone face down on the table, disturbed, because every single result had said the same thing.

-

Phil came with Dan for the blood test.

They sat together – as usual – in the waiting room, sitting as close as was possible without seeming suspicious. The guard was up. 

A young doctor with a clipboard called Dan’s name and they both stood, Phil shooting Dan a reassuring smile as they followed the doctor through a short corridor. 

In the room, the doctor – who Phil learned was called Dr. Yim – put a tight strap around Dan’s arm and sterilised the area on the inside of his elbow. 

‘What's it going to feel like?’ Dan asked. He couldn't really remember the last time this had happened when he had that operation – the morphine had seen to that. 

‘Just a sharp scratch.’ Yim replied. 

Dan’s eyes widened and he grimaced at the sight of the needle, turning to Phil, determinedly looking away from his arm.

‘Distract me,’ he muttered. 

Phil nodded, trying not to watch what was happening. ‘Are you going to make any new videos soon?’

‘Maybe. I've not really been feeling up to it lately, but I've got some ideas –,’ he suddenly stopped, mouth tightening as the needle entered his arm. Phil watched in morbid fascination, unable to tear his eyes away, as the small tube attached to the needle filled slowly with Dan’s blood. 

‘Not so bad,’ Dan muttered. He had turned sheet white, and Phil was inclined to think he was reassuring himself rather than talking to Phil.

It was over relatively quickly and they were on their way, Dan absently rubbing his thumb back and forth over the plaster on his arm. 

‘Leave it alone,’ Phil said gently, nudging his fingers away. 

Dan smiled sideways at him, dropping his hand to his side and bumping their knuckles together. Phil’s little finger caught Dan’s, just for a second.

They fell asleep on the sofa that night, Phil’s legs in Dan’s lap and their hands loosely laced together.

-

Four days later, Phil came home from Tesco to find Dan sitting on the sofa, his head in his hands.

‘What's wrong?’ he asked, dumping the plastic bag on the floor by the stairs and taking his coat off.

Dan didn't reply.

‘Dan?’

A pause. Dan rubbed a hand over his face. ‘They want me to go to the hospital. There was something wrong with the blood test.’

Phil frowned. ‘You mean they did it wrong, or –’

‘No. My blood. There's something wrong with my blood.’ He looked up, his expression anguished. ‘They want to do a bone marrow biopsy. I know what that's for, Phil.’

Phil felt a cold finger drag itself down his spine. ‘What?’

Silence. Dan stood up, covering his face. 

‘What, Dan?’

Dan turned to Phil. His eyes were a little red.

-

‘Leukaemia.’

A long silence.

The word hung heavy in the air. 

Phil felt Dan stiffen beside him; sensing it both physically and not so. The tension flowed off him in tangible waves, and Phil could see it in the slight way his fingers began to drum on the arm of the chair and how he stopped bouncing his leg.

‘Acute myeloid leukaemia, to be precise. Cancer of the white blood cells. Not metastasised.’ The doctor looked up from her desk to Dan, her face grim. ‘I’m incredibly sorry, Mr. Howell.’

Dan put his face in his hands, his elbows on his knees. There was a pause. When he spoke, his voice was emotionless.

‘Stage?’

‘...Due to its nature, leukaemia isn't staged like other cancers. You'd be classed as something like early to mid stage. However, while your cancer has not spread to other parts of your body yet, there is a high risk that it will do so if we do not begin treatment promptly.’ 

Dan didn't take his face from his hands. Phil stared at him intently, half-listening to the doctor. Everything felt muted – like being underwater. 

‘So it’s treatable?’ Dan asked, raising his head.

‘Yes, immediately.’

‘Am I going to die?’ 

Phil closed his eyes, clenching his jaw. 

The doctor hesitated. ‘It is… unlikely, but it's hard to say at this point.’

Dan let out a long, shuddering breath, sinking back into his hands. ‘Oh my God.’

‘AML is typically associated with a poor prognosis, but you are young and otherwise healthy. We’ve caught it fairly early on. We’re going to do everything we can to get you through this. You’ll have every kind of support you need.’ The doctor turned to Phil, seemingly uncertain. ‘Are you…?’ She motioned between them.

‘We’re together,’ Phil said without hesitating. It felt strange to say – it was not something they spoke about much. They just were.

‘I understand. Any support you require in terms of mental health, coping with psychological stress, etcetera – that will also be available to you,’ she addressed Phil.

‘Thank you,’ he said quietly. 

Dan had removed his head from his hands and was sitting up, hands locked tight together in his lap. ‘So. Treatment,’ he said. ‘What’s going to happen?’

The doctor looked down, unearthing some papers from her desk. ‘Well, since your condition is an aggressive one, we’ll likely be starting treatment in a few days time or as soon as we can get you a space in the chemotherapy ward.’

‘Chemotherapy,’ Dan repeated, his hand automatically going to his hair. It was pushed back out of his face today. ‘So I'll lose my hair.’ 

‘It’s a common side effect.’

‘Is it guaranteed to work?’

‘Unfortunately not. But there is a very good chance that it will, considering that we’ve caught it before it has spread.’

‘Right.’

Phil felt Dan’s leg lean against his and he nudged it back. _I'm right here._

‘Will he have to stay in hospital?’ Phil queried.

‘Most likely, yes. Only during the treatment though – when he’s on breaks, he can go home. Since his immune system will be compromised by both the condition and the treatment, it’s important that he's in a sterile environment. Any small infection could be dangerous.’

‘How long?’

‘Anywhere between a few weeks and a few months.’

Phil felt his stomach drop. ‘Months?’

‘If he doesn't respond well to treatment, then yes.’

Phil rubbed a hand over his temples. ‘Okay. Alright.’ He looked over at Dan, eyes flitting to the shadows under his eyes and the tight, thin line of his mouth. ‘When will we be back?’

‘I’ll arrange for you to come in on Friday. If anything changes, we’ll let you know.’

‘How is the treatment going to work?’ Dan asked.

The doctor considered. ‘The best course of action is most likely chemotherapy, as I said. After a while, we’ll check his progress and see if further action if required. Radiation, hormones and surgery may be options, but that's quite a way off yet.’ She smiled a little. ‘We’ll do our best get you better before you have to even consider any of that.’

‘Thank you,’ Dan said quietly. 

They stood and the doctor walked over to the door to open it for them. Just as they were leaving, she touched Dan’s arm.

‘I’m not going to pretend the next few months are going to be easy, but it’s going to be okay. The doctors will do everything in our power to make it okay.’

Dan forced a smile. ‘Thanks.’

She returned the smile and let them out, shutting the door behind them. 

Walking through the corridor was surreal. Phil felt as though he'd been dropped to the bottom of the ocean – all of a sudden, there was this enormous weight crushing down on him from all angles and the air had been punched right out of his lungs. The only thing he was really aware of was Dan’s presence beside him; this constant thing that had always just been there. His head hurt at the idea of it being absent and he violently pushed the thought away, willing himself not to think like that.

They spoke very little on the taxi ride home. Phil threw small worried glances at Dan, watching him sit motionless, staring into space. His face betrayed nothing.

When they got home, Dan shut the door behind him and walked straight into Phil’s open arms. Phil squeezed him tight, burying his face in Dan’s shoulder, his hand rubbing small circles on Dan’s back as they rocked gently from side to side. Dan’s arms were vices – he held on for dear life, lips against Phil’s shoulder, eyes closed. They stayed there for several minutes, not talking, but sharing the weight of the situation. 

‘I love you,’ Phil said quietly. ‘I know we don't say it very often, but I do. A lot. And I’m with you. I’m staying right here. That's not changing.’

He heard Dan’s breath catch. ‘I know. And I love you.’

As they slept in Dan’s bed that night, Dan lay facing away from Phil, his arms wrapped around himself. Phil lay on his back, an arm over his face, mind buzzing. 

Suddenly, at some point around midnight, Dan turned to him and tapped on his shoulder.

‘I can't sleep. I can't stop thinking.’

Phil rubbed a hand over his face. ‘Yeah, neither.’

‘Distract me.’

He opened his eyes, staring over at Dan. ‘What?’

‘Distract me. Please,’ he said quietly, his tone growing more urgent as he slid his hands up Phil’s shirt, tracing patterns on his chest. ‘Let's fuck. Come on. We’re not going to be able to for a while, and I want to think about anything but today.’

He hesitated. ‘I don't want to hurt you.’

Suddenly, Dan was over him, in his face, staring straight at Phil with eyes like hellfire. ‘If you start treating me like I’m made of glass, Phil Lester, I swear to God I will break both your legs.’

A breathy laugh came from him. ‘Alright, sorry.’

Dan seemed satisfied, and Phil closed his eyes as lips came down hungrily on his neck. His hands automatically raised to rest on Dan’s sides as he shifted his body so he was straddling Phil, lifting his hips and reaching down between them, palming at Phil’s boxers.

‘Dan…’ Phil murmured, but he was quickly shut up as Dan’s lips pressed hard to his own. He gave in, tugging Dan’s shirt off and abandoning it on the floor, sliding his hands down Dan’s back, guiding his hips down so they were flush together.

Ten minutes later, Dan was on his back on the bed, fingers curling in the sheets at the feeling of Phil’s mouth on his cock. His breaths stuttered – his head thrown back, brow furrowed and mouth open. Phil ran his hands over his hips, his thighs, trying not to press on the bruises, staring up at the frankly glorious sight of Dan losing it under him. His moans grew breathier and breathier, increasingly desperate, until Phil tasted salt and felt Dan’s fingers grip his hair, a shudder running through him as he came. Phil followed quickly after as Dan’s hand wrapped around his cock and stroked languidly.

Afterwards, they lay curled around each other, close enough that Phil could feel the quick beating of Dan’s heart against his back as their breaths gradually slowed. 

‘Thank you,’ Dan murmured, shuffling closer so his head was buried in the back of Phil’s shoulder. Phil smiled a little as he felt a light kiss against his skin.

‘That's okay.’

‘I’m going to get through this,’ Dan mumbled. ‘We’re going to be fine.’

Phil nodded, because that was the only plausible outcome. 

Everything would be fine.

-

They called everyone on Tuesday. 

Dan’s parents asked a lot of questions.

Louise tried and failed not to cry.

Phil’s mum’s voice shook.

PJ told him it would be alright. 

Martyn and Cornelia didn't seem to know quite what to say.

All of them said they were sorry.

Dan hated it.

-

On Thursday evening, they sat on Dan’s bed with a suitcase, packing comfortable clothes into it.

It was a little surreal. The floor, usually scattered with discarded garments, was bare. 

Suddenly, as Dan was folding a hoodie, his head snapped up and he swore. ‘Shit. We’re going to have to tell them.’

Phil frowned, confused. ‘Tell who?’

‘The fans, Phil. I'm hardly going to be able to make videos.’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘Shit. I didn't want to have to. They’ll freak out.’

‘They care about you,’ Phil reminded him.

‘Yes, but they’ll lose their minds over this. I'll be The Sick Guy. Everything will become about my situation.’ He grimaced, shaking his head. ‘I don't want that.’

Phil thought for a moment. ‘You’re probably right, but you can't really avoid it now. They'll notice, one way or the other. It's that or completely drop off the Internet for several months.’ He shot Dan a look, smiling. ‘And we both know that's not going to happen.’

‘No chance in hell,’ Dan said, lying back on the bed. ‘Fuck it. I'll film it now. One take.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah, why not. Can you get my light and my camera? They're just over –’

‘I know where they are.’

They quickly set up, Dan clearing a space on the bed while Phil dealt with the tripod and camera. 

‘You ready?’ Phil said, standing behind the camera. 

Dan nodded, taking a breath in. ‘Yeah. I'm ready. Go.’

Phil turned the camera on. 

‘Hello, Internet. So, this is a bit of a spontaneous video, and not one I ever really thought I’d have to make, but I need to talk about something important.

‘A lot of you probably know that I've not been feeling 100% these past few weeks. Well, I went to the doctors, and they did some tests, which came back… abnormal.’

Phil watched him pause briefly, rubbing a hand over his eyes. 

‘I got referred to the hospital. On Monday, I went there to get the results, and was told that I have leukaemia.’

His voice was steely, and Phil felt himself crack a little. 

‘It's… all been very intense. Everything feels like it’s happening in fast forward. I'm going back into the hospital again on Friday – tomorrow – and I'll be staying there for a while, so unfortunately there aren't going to be many videos during that time. I'm really sorry.’ He smiled a little sadly. ‘I’m not going away, though. I'll be on Twitter lots – I expect I'll have a lot of free time to spend there – and Tumblr, so I'll keep you updated on things. 

‘I know many of you probably have a lot of questions right now, but let me assure of some things – I’m still me, I’m okay, and I'm not going to die. This is the way things are now, and the way things are is shit, but I’m going to get through it. It’s… not going to be easy, but we’ll manage. A lot of things are going to change, but I’m determined that it’ll be okay in the end. I’ll make it okay.’

He paused, then gestured for Phil to come on camera. ‘Phil’s here too. He’s going to help me.’

Phil leaned quickly into the shot, smiling and giving a small wave. ‘Hey, guys.’

‘Anyway, this was just a quick update so you guys know what’s up. Everything’s going to be fine. People beat cancer all the time – hell, I bet some of you have.’ He smiled, reaching for the camera. ‘Bye for now.’

He turned the camera off.

Phil watched Dan deflate.

‘Fucking hell,’ he murmured, lying back. ‘That was exhausting.’

‘Did it feel good?’ Phil asked. ‘To say it, I mean.’

Dan considered. ‘I guess so. Yeah, it did.’

They transferred the footage to Dan’s laptop and put it into YouTube. Dan’s finger stilled, the cursor hovering over the upload button.

‘The minute I click this,’ he murmured, ‘it's real. Everyone will know.’

Phil looked over at him. ‘You don’t have to,’ he said quietly. 

Dan shook his head. ‘I do. And I want to. Let's just get it over with.’ 

He clicked the button, then sat back and let out a long breath. 

‘There it goes.’

Phil rested his head against Dan’s shoulder, and they watched the chaos unfold.

-

I can't believe this I hope he's alright #GetWellSoonDan

im crying there's too many what ifs please let him be okay #GetWellSoonDan

guys please remember he probably wants space, let's support him but not make a huge deal of it, he's still the same dan #GetWellSoonDan

nononononononono this can't be happening #GetWellSoonDan

he's going to pull through I just know it #GetWellSoonDan

we’re with you dan no matter what #GetWellSoonDan

-

The hospital was a maze, and smelled of an unsavoury combination of sickness and sanitizer.

They walked through the Oncology unit, Phil carrying Dan’s small suitcase. A receptionist had put a paper band around Dan’s wrist, with his name and age on it. He twisted it round and round on his arm, fiddling absently. He was dressed in sweatpants and a hoodie – distinctly different to what Phil was used to him wearing outside. He hadn’t even bothered with his hair. It marked the first change, and Phil wasn’t sure how he felt about it.

Dan also had a mask. Thin white material over his mouth and nose, like the kind Phil had seen doctors wear. The receptionist had explained that it to protect the patients with weak immune systems. Patients like Dan.

They sat in a small waiting area for a few minutes, waiting for someone called Dr. Hunt. The only other people there were a young girl and her mother, both in masks; the daughter’s one was dotted with stickers. The little girl, asleep against her mother’s arm, had patchy hair and a tube winding from a small bag, up behind her ear and into one side of her nose. Phil did his best not to stare. 

The mother made eye contact with him and her eyes crinkled with a slight smile. Phil noted how exhausted she looked – dark bags under her eyes, pale cheeks, hard lines across her face like they'd been carved into clay with a needle.

‘Is this your first time here?’ she asked.

Phil looked up ‘Yeah. It feels… a bit crazy.’

She laughed. ‘I know how you feel. I was you with my daughter last year, except I can see you’re probably not his dad.’

Dan smiled. ‘Definitely not.’

‘I’m Lillian, by the way. This is Andrea,’ she gestured to her sleeping daughter.

‘I’m Dan. This is Phil,’ Dan spoke up. ‘Nice to meet you.’

‘If you don't mind me asking, which one of you is…?’ she trailed off, hesitating.

Dan raised his hand slightly. ‘Me. Leukaemia.’

She nodded. ‘I thought so, but I didn't want to say in case I offended you.’

Dan laughed. ‘It's fine, I know I look like shi—’ 

Phil elbowed him, nodding sharply to the little girl. 

‘— terrible.’

Lillian chuckled, then looked down at her daughter. ‘Andrea has Hodgkin’s. She's close to finishing chemo, now. Just one more month, and we should be in remission.’ Her hand stroked the little girl’s feathery hair.

‘That's great,’ Phil said.

At that moment, a tall woman with a severe face and a scarf wrapped into a neat knot around her hair walked in.

‘Daniel Howell?’

Dan stood with Phil.

The doctor nodded at them and gave a smile. ‘Hello. I am Dr. Hunt; I'll be overseeing your treatment here, Mr. Howell. Do you prefer Daniel or Dan?’

‘Dan, please.’

‘Perfect. Please follow me – we’ve got your bed ready just down the ward.’

They went to follow her out the room. Lillian spoke quietly to Phil as he passed.

‘You’re in good hands – she's brilliant. A little intimidating at first, but brilliant.’

Phil smiled genuinely at her. ‘Thanks.’ 

They followed Hunt down through the ward, past several people in chairs or beds, hooked up to IVs. Some cubicles were closed off with thin blue paper curtains. The people were mostly elderly, with the exceptions of a girl as young as Andrea and a teenage boy with a beanie pulled over his bare scalp. Phil’s eye caught a wizened old man, thin as a rail, sitting in a wheelchair with an elderly woman next to him. Her hand covered his, their fingers overlapping. 

Phil looked away, focusing on Dan walking just ahead of him. He was hyper-aware of the eyes on their backs. 

At Dan’s spot, a middle-aged nurse sat him down and pulled the curtains shut around his bed, explaining what was going to happen as she prepared a catheter with a needle on the end. Phil suppressed a smile at the disgusted look Dan was giving the needle. 

‘Hi, Dan. I’m Mary, I'll be helping out during your treatment along with Adam here.’ She gestured to the male nurse in the corner of the cubicle. ‘You’ll be receiving a chemotherapy drug called cytarabine – we call it ara-C – through a central line in your chest. It’ll –’ 

‘Wait – through my chest?’ Dan said apprehensively. ‘Won't that… hurt?’

Mary laughed. ‘Just a little bit, when it goes in. It's only going into a vein – not into your heart, or anything. Don't worry.’

Dan nodded. He didn't look convinced.

‘I’m going to have to ask you to take your shirt off, now. You can have it back on afterwards.’ She looked over uncertainly at Phil, then back to Dan. ‘Is he okay to stay, or…?’

‘No, he's fine,’ Dan said, sending Phil an apologetic smile. 

Dan pulled his shirt over his head and Phil winced at the sight of the blotchy bruises. They had turned greyish in colour, and dotted his stomach, which had lost a good deal of its softness. His ribs showed a little on the side. 

Phil watched as the nurse cleaned a patch on the left side of Dan’s chest, tapping it a few times until a blue vein showed through his pale skin. Dan’s mouth tightened as she picked up the needle and he turned towards Phil, head down, eyes squeezed shut.

‘I absolutely hate needles. It doesn't even hurt that much, it's just –’ the catheter went in and he sucked in a sharp breath, eyes flying wide open, ‘– shit, I take that back, it hurts like a _bitch_ –’

‘Dan, there are kids here,’ Phil murmured, trying to to laugh. The nurses were laughing as they taped over the entry point of the catheter, hooking the wires hanging off it up to the drip next to the bed. 

‘It's been a while since we’ve had a mouthy one,’ the nurse called Adam commented. ‘The old guy down there, Charlie – he would turn the air black with it when he first came in. He's not quite as perky anymore, but oh boy did he put up a good fight the other day when I tried to change his central line. He hates it.’

Phil smiled a little as Adam spoke about the old man with affection. If all the nurses were like this, Dan’s stay might not be too unbearable for him. Even so, it troubled him a little to think of Dan being here long enough to make friends with the staff; he just wanted him at home. 

A thought suddenly occurred to him and he looked up. ‘Am I allowed to stay here with him?’ he asked Mary. 

She shook her head sympathetically, fiddling with a dial on Dan’s IV. ‘Sorry, love. There's not enough space, and we’ve got to be really cautious around sanitation. A minor infection could be fatal to some of the people here. You can visit, though.’

Phil nodded, exchanging a look with Dan. Sorry. 

The flat would feel strange tonight.

‘Okay. We’ve got the drip going; it’ll be on for about two hours.’ Adam said. ‘Your treatment program is going to consist of ten days of receiving the drug, then five days rest, then another cycle. Do you have any questions? About side effects, or anything?’

Dan hesitated, then nodded. ‘What’s going to happen? How am I going to feel?’

Mary leaned on the bed, facing Dan in his chair. ‘Most patients experience some fatigue; you're going to be really tired for quite a while. Nausea is also common, and some get mouth sores. You might feel dizzy, too.’ Her mouth twisted sympathetically. ‘Your hair will probably start to fall out around day fifteen.’

Dan looked down, hand automatically going to his hair. A curl fell in his face and he brushed it away, fingertips lingering slightly on it.

The nurses left shortly after, keeping the curtains closed; Dan preferred it that way. He sat in silence, pulling his hoodie back over his head. The wires hung out the hem, curling across his lap. He looked down at them, his nose wrinkling slightly. 

‘There's a cold spot in my chest. I can feel my vein,’ he murmured. 

‘That's so weird.’

‘Mhm.’

A brief pause.

‘Phil?’

‘Yeah?’

‘I just remembered. We aren't going to be able to… do anything for a while. We won't even be able to sleep together.’

Phil chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘Is that really what's on your mind?’

‘What’s supposed to be on my mind?’ Dan shot back.

‘I don't know. Probably not your libido, though.’

‘Better that than my imminent death,’ he muttered. 

Phil’s head jerked up and he stared at Dan. ‘Don't talk like that.’

Dan shrugged. ‘Kidding.’

Phil looked down again, brushing phantom lint off his jeans. ‘You’re not going to die.’

‘Hope not.’

‘You aren't.’

‘I know.’

‘I won't let you,’ Phil said, one corner of his mouth quirking up a little. ‘You’re not allowed to.’

Dan laughed. ‘Alright.’

-

Phil left at nine in the evening – the latest he could push staying to.

Walking through the Underground alone felt odd. Usually, when he was somewhere without Dan, he'd know that he was going back home to him. This was different – it felt strange – like he was abandoning him somehow.

He thought of him lying in the hospital bed, curtains pulled shut, nose buried in one of the books he'd brought with him, or maybe scrolling through something on his phone. Perhaps he was asleep already.

When he got home, his phone buzzed with a text from Dan.

> it’s so boring here

He chuckled.

> -They should hire a clown to come in and entertain or something 

> fuck no I’d shit myself

He smiled to himself, sending a row of clown emojis. Dan sent back a middle finger.

> -You should sleep

He sent the message, staring at the screen, watching the three dots appear as Dan typed. It was absurd, but the texting made him miss him more.

> I'm not tired
> 
> -You will be if you don't sleep!!
> 
> it's like 10pm
> 
> -You’re sick 

He regretted sending that immediately.

> No. You don't pull that shit on me, phil. Not you too 
> 
> -Sorry. Bad choice of words 
> 
> whatever it's all cool

Fuck. He was annoyed.

> -I’m sorry dan
> 
> I said it's fine

He sighed, running a hand through his hair.

> -Hope you sleep well  
>  -See you tomorrow x

Waiting for the reply seemed to take forever, and when it came, he could almost hear the resignation in Dan’s tone.

> see you tomorrow 

-

Nine days passed where Dan insisted he felt mostly fine.

Then, on a Sunday, it started. 

By the time Phil arrived at the hospital, Dan was pale and shivery and lay curled in his bed, arms wrapped around his middle. Adam was standing over him, trying to ask him something.

Phil hurried over. ‘Is he okay? What’s wrong?’

Adam sighed. ‘Chemo side effects are starting; he's been ill all night. It had to happen eventually. There's not much we can do, except give him painkillers and anti-emetics.’ He looked over his shoulder at Phil as he left. ‘I've seen this a thousand times before. It's going to be rough.’

Phil nodded, walking around the bed and sitting down beside Dan. He hesitated uncertainly, before reaching out to touch Dan’s shoulder. 

‘Hey. You okay?’

Dan groaned and rolled onto his back, teeth clenched with nausea. He opened his eyes a little; they were dull with exhaustion.

‘Have you slept?’ Phil asked gently.

Dan shook his head slightly, then suddenly sat bolt upright. ‘Gonna throw up.’

Phil swore, calling for a nurse, looking around desperately for something to catch it in. He wasn't fast enough; Dan doubled forward over the edge of the bed, clutching his stomach. A strained noise clawed its way up his throat and he heaved, vomiting onto the floor. Phil stepped quickly out of the way, sitting down on the bed, rubbing Dan’s back, speaking softly to him as he coughed and shook and spluttered. The rancid smell reached him and he grimaced, trying determinedly not to breath through his nose.

Adam came hurrying back in with Dr. Hunt tailing him, a bucket in his hands. He handed it to Dan and spoke quickly into the radio in his hand, asking for a cleaner. Dan sank backwards onto the pillows, eyes closed, his arm wrapped loosely around the bucket. His face was a sickly shade of greyish green.

A cleaner came and swept up the mess, disinfecting the floor until Phil coughed at little at the toxic odor. He sat beside Dan, head in one of his hands, holding Dan’s hand with the other. 

Dan opened his eyes a little, looking around the room. They flicked over Phil and Adam and Dr. Hunt before settling on the ceiling, staring straight ahead. 

‘I thought I'd feel better after that,’ he mumbled. ‘But I don't.’

Phil looked down at his lap, not sure of what to say.

‘This is how it’s going to be now, isn't it?’ Dan murmured. ‘It's only going to get worse. That's just how it is.’

For a moment no one said anything, then Dr. Hunt spoke up. ‘You finish your first cycle of chemo tomorrow, Dan. You’ll be able to go home for a bit.’

Dan muttered something, throwing an arm over his face. 

‘Sorry?’

‘I said that's not going to change the fact that I feel like shit!’ he snapped hoarsely. ‘I've been up all night wanting to puke and thinking about everything. This is how it is, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it. I go through a few months of feeling like death or I actually die.’ He laughed humourlessly. ‘Go figure.’

‘You aren't going to die,’ Phil said quietly. 

Dan looked over at him and opened his mouth as though he was going to speak, then seemed to decide against it. He directed his gaze back at the ceiling.

‘I know.’

-

The minute they got home, Dan collapsed on the couch and pulled a pillow over his face. 

‘Jesus Christ, it’s good to be home.’

Phil smiled, dumping Dan’s bag at the door. ‘It's been weird having you gone. It happens sometimes, when you go away, but I never quite get used to it.’

‘Good. I'd be pissed if you didn't miss me.’

‘Well, I do, so shut up,’ Phil rallied. 

‘Don't be mean to the dying guy.’

‘You’re not dying.’ Phil shook his head. ‘Drama queen.’

‘Fuck off.’

Dan looked out from under his arm, staring in distaste at his bag. ‘They gave me enough pills to sink a boat. The next few days are going to be lit.’

Phil rolled his eyes, laughing.

‘We should have a party. Invite everyone. We’ll play drum and bass music and trip out on co-coda-whatever-the-fuck-it's-called.’

Phil fished the box out of the front pocket of the bag, reading the text on the back. His eyebrows raised. ‘It says it's ‘highly addictive’.’

Dan grinned. ‘Even better.’

They slept in Dan’s bed that night, cuddling lazily for an hour or so before Dan suddenly turned sheet white, threw up in the sink and passed out.

Phil sighed, feeling Dan’s arm tighten around his waist as he slept, the quick, steady thudding of his heart beating against Phil’s back. Phil became hyper-aware of it, counting each beat, unconsciously syncing his breath with it. It was strong and regular and he couldn't quite fathom how it could be pumping death around his body, slowly killing him from the inside out. 

He covered Dan’s hand with his own, lacing their fingers and closing his eyes, trying to focus on the distinctly alive feeling of Dan’s breath against his shoulder. 

-

On their last day before Dan went back into hospital, they spent the entire day on the sofa, re-watching Planet Earth II.

Dan lay with his head on a pillow in Phil’s lap, a blanket pulled over his body, only half awake. A bucket sat on the floor beside him; it had become his almost constant companion.

Phil threaded his fingers through Dan’s curly hair, playing with it absently, very invested in the story of a plague of locusts traveling across a country. 

Phil frowned – something was tickling his arm. He looked down.

Froze.

His hands were full of strands of Dan’s hair.

He let out a shaky breath, carefully plucking a dark curl off his arm. There wasn't a huge amount, but it was enough to scare him, and he could see a small patch of scalp on Dan’s head.

‘Oh, no,’ he murmured, not sure whether to move his hands. ‘Dan, your hair.’

Dan shifted sleepily, then suddenly stiffened. His hand flew to his head and he threaded his fingers through his hair and tugged gently. Several chunks came away in his hand. He stilled, staring at them.

‘Oh.’

Phil bit his lip. 

‘That’s… new.’

They dumped the strands in the bin. Dan had his hands shoved determinedly in his pockets, resisting the temptation to run his hands through his hair. 

‘If I brush it or wash it it's just going to all fall out,’ he said emotionlessly. 

Phil didn't reply.

Dan cracked his knuckles, staring at the pieces of his own hair amongst the juice cartons and wrappers and tissues. ‘I’m not ready.’ He paused. ‘I knew it was going to happen, but not so soon. I don't want to…’ his hand automatically went to his hair, pushing it back, and he swore as a small piece came away. He snatched his hand away immediately, staring in dismay at the chunk. ‘Fuck. Shit. I can't do this.’ 

He flung the piece into the bin, storming away, his hands fisted and tugging hard at his hair, pacing around the room. 

‘I can't. I can't. I can't fucking do this.’

‘Dan –’

‘Look at me!’ he suddenly yelled, tearing his hands away from his head, in each a clump of hair. ‘I’m falling apart. It's been two weeks and I'm fucking falling apart. I’m only twenty-five and I’ve got fucking cancer. I can't do this,’ he repeated hoarsely. ‘I can't.’

‘Dan,’ Phil said quietly, trying not to let his voice break. ‘Listen to me.’

‘I can't, I don't want this, Phil –’

‘No one does – just listen –’

 _‘I CAN’T DO THIS,’_ he spat, eyes wide and wet, hands tearing at his hair. None came out this time and he screamed a curse, slamming his hand against a wall, kicking the door. ‘I can't, I can't –’

‘Stop!’ Phil shouted, voice breaking, and grabbed Dan by his shoulders and shook him hard. ‘Stop it! Fucking stop it! You're hurting yourself – you're hurting me, I can't watch this, I can't –’

He suddenly pulled Dan into a vice grip of a hug, pressing his face into his shoulder, teeth bared in an effort to hold back the tsunami that was threatening to spill over. The catheter in Dan’s chest dug into Phil’s skin. He felt Dan begin to shake, his hands locked around Phil’s back, fingertips digging in. A long, animalistic, strained sound forced its way out his mouth and he muffled it in Phil’s shirt. They swayed, rocking back and forth in the middle of the kitchen, breathing shallowly. 

Phil did not cry. Dan did. 

They didn't move for a while.

The storm retreated. 

-

A month since diagnosis came and went.

Dan’s hair thinned agonisingly slowly. 

He woke up each morning to find some on the pillow, then one morning there was more, and the next there was even more, and he couldn't brush it without losing clumps. 

At one point, as he sat in his hospital bed, talking with Phil, he rubbed his eyes. When he looked down, dozens of tiny eyelashes lay on his palms. 

He swallowed hard, showing his hands. ‘Phil.’

Phil frowned, and his expression morphed to one of realisation, then pain. He looked up uncertainly, and his eyes caught Dan’s. They seemed smaller – their usual dark frame was thinning, lying on the heels of Dan’s hands, and the shadows under them were like bruises. 

He looked sick.

-

Phil sat with Mary while Dan went through scan after scan.

‘Out of interest,’ she suddenly said, with an air of trying to be tactful. ‘Are you and Dan… together?’ 

He smiled, looking down. ‘Yeah, we are.’

She grinned, clapping her hands together. ‘I knew it! Oh, you’re such a lovely pair. We get couples all the time, obviously, like Charlie and Penny down there –’ she waved her hand in the direction of the old couple at the end of the ward. ‘– but rarely ones that seem as… close as you two. It’s something else.’

Phil nodded. ‘He's my best friend.’

Mary smiled. ‘The nurses have been debating whether you two were a thing. This’ll be exciting for them.’ She laughed, rubbing a hand across her face. ‘Sorry, I’m embarrassing you. We don't get very much room for fun around here. I guess we take what we can get.’

‘I understand.’

Somehow, her observation made Phil want to be happier, for Dan’s sake.

-

‘You know what I’ve always wanted to do?’ Dan said as he stood over the hospital bathroom sink, staring at himself in the mirror. A fine, feathery layer of patchy chocolate hair only just covered his scalp; he ran his fingertips delicately over it.

Phil looked up from his book. ‘Hm?’

‘It's been on my bucket list for ages. I suppose this would be a good time.’ He mused absently.

‘What do you want to do?’

Dan grinned almost manically. ‘Dye my hair bright fucking red.’

Phil hesitated, closing the book. He spoke carefully. ‘I can imagine it, but it might not do your hair any good.’

Dan considered. ‘I've got barely any left. Just enough for this, though.’

Phil’s eyes narrowed and the corner of his mouth turned up. ‘What are you plotting?’

A pause. 

‘Phil?’ Dan said, turning around abruptly, facing him.

‘...Yeah?’

‘Can you go to the nearest pharmacy and buy a razor and some red hair dye?’

Phil hesitated, dubious. ‘A razor?’

‘Please, just do it. Trust me,’ he implored. ‘I know what I'm doing.’

Phil complied, albeit uncertainly, and was back within half an hour with a plastic bag containing a razor and a box of fire-truck red hair dye. Dan took it silently from him, staring at the razor for a few seconds, then turned to walk into the bathroom.

‘Do you want any help?’ Phil asked.

Dan seemed to hesitate, then shook his head. ‘No. I’ve got to do this myself. This is for me.’

Phil gave a nod of understanding, and watched Dan’s back retreat into the bathroom. He swayed a little and Phil stepped forward, concerned, but Dan waved him away.

‘Just a head rush. It's fine.’

The door shut in Phil’s face.

He stood there for a few moments, listening intently to the rustling of the paper box and Dan’s footsteps on the tiles, before walking away. 

He passed Andrea’s bed on the way. She was awake and sitting up, a ventilator strapped over her mouth and nose, a wire in her arm connecting her to the drip next to her bed. Her mother and a teenage boy Phil assumed was the little girl’s brother sat next to her, him talking animatedly. Lillian seemed quieter.

She looked up and he quickly averted his gaze, turning and walking idly towards Dan’s bed. Resuming his usual position in the chair next to it, he opened Twitter and skimmed through his feed. He didn't bother checking his inbox anymore – every message was about Dan; if Dan was okay, when he was going to be better, if he was going to die.

He had replied to one of them. Just one. 

@AmazingPhil is dan going to die 

No.

A presence beside him became apparent and he looked up. Dr. Hunt was standing over him.

‘Do you have a moment?’ she said discreetly.

He nodded, and she motioned for him to follow her. Casting a brief glance back at the room Dan was in, he obliged, hooking his thumbs into his pockets to stop him picking at the skin around his nails. It was an anxious habit he had yet to shake.

His thumbs were red raw these days.

They stopped in the corridor. Dr. Hunt turned to Phil.

‘I’ve just been talking to Dr. Smith, who is the one designing Dan’s treatment plan. He’s completed ten weeks of chemotherapy, and since the side effects have had quite a substantial effect on him, we’re thinking of giving him a two week respite before he comes back in for further treatment.’

Phil smiled. ‘That's great. How is he doing?’

‘His condition has not progressed much, but then again it hasn't significantly regressed either. The theory is that if we give his body some time to heal, he’ll respond better to the next few rounds of ara-C.’ She adjusted a pin in her hijab. ‘It's worked before, and will give him a chance to be at home for a while. His parents and friends could visit – obviously they haven't been able to come so far because of the state of his immune system.’

‘That's really good. Shall I tell him?’

‘Not yet. It still needs to be authorised and properly confirmed, and if we decide against it then it wouldn't be fair to give him false hope.’

‘Alright. I understand.’

‘Good.’ She smiled. ‘I will update you on things later.’

Phil nodded and they parted ways. Phil walked back through the Oncology unit with a new bounce in his step – there was some hope. Dan was getting better. As he turned the corner into the ward where Dan was, he suddenly stopped.

Dan was sitting in his bed, with Andrea, her brother and another small child surrounding him, touching the remains of his hair and giggling. 

It was a fierce shade of scarlet. 

Phil grinned, hurrying over to him. Dan looked up and waved, giving him a thumbs-up as he talked to the kids around him. Lillian and some other parents were there too, smiling and chatting to Dan.

‘Wow,’ Phil said, staring the fiery curls. ‘That is… certainly something.’

Dan laughed. ‘It's great. Like, half of it fell out, but that doesn't matter anymore. I'm shaving it all off once we get home.’

Phil paused. ‘Really?’

Dan nodded as Andrea played with a longer strand. He indicated the kids. ‘They seem to like it. It's kind of a last hurrah.’

He leaned on the end of the bed. ‘Aren't you scared?’

Dan considered. ‘Yeah, a bit. But losing it gradually is just drawing out the suffering. This way, I'm in control.’ 

‘Control freak.’ Phil rolled his eyes jokingly. 

‘You love me anyway.’

He smiled a little. ‘Yeah, I do.’

-

> Patient: Daniel James Howell
> 
> Rotation: Evening shift 
> 
> Nurse: Mary Goddard
> 
> Pt sleeping in bed after finishing chemotherapy cycle. Slightly groggy when woken, but shifts to fully vocal and oriented state within 10 mins. Respiration is even and unlaboured. Pt complains of headache; probable side effect of ara-C. SaO2 95% on pulse oximetry. Prochlorperazine 1mg IV. Pt rated pain 4/10. Instructed to call if pain relief is required; pt and pt’s partner (?) verbalised understanding.

-

Dan posted a picture of his hair, captioning it ‘rip fringe’.

It went borderline viral – Phil had forgotten the fans hadn't seen the hair loss yet – and a new tag of #ripdanshair started up on Tumblr. He scrolled through it briefly, looking at all the old pictures of Dan with a full head of hair. 

He missed it. He missed running his fingers through it. He missed the way it curled. He missed how Dan would fiddle absently with it.

Then again, looking at the pictures felt strangely weird. He had gotten used to Dan’s thin, short hair. It was the new normal. 

Funny how seven years could go down the drain in place of barely two months.

-

Dan came home two days later with the promise of a two week break from treatment. 

They stood in the hallway and hugged. Phil pressed a kiss to Dan’s cheek.

‘You're getting better.’

Dan smiled. ‘I hope so.’

They held each other for a little while after that. Not much of that had happened in the hospital. PDA wasn’t their thing.

Later, as soon as he’d dumped his bags in his room, Dan pulled out a razor and held it up to Phil.

‘I want you there when I do it.’

Phil met his eyes and nodded, steeling himself. ‘You sure you're ready?’

Dan shook his head. ‘No. Not in the slightest. But it’s got to be done.’

Dan stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom, Phil leaning on the edge of the bath. Dan braced his arms on the edges of the sink, staring at his reflection for a few seconds before running a hand lightly over his sparse hair. The razor in his hand, fitted with the shortest guard they could find, did not tremble or hesitate as he raised to his scalp, turned it on and cut away a swathe of bright red hair. Phil watched as chunks fell away from his head and floated slowly down into the sink. Dan ran the razor over his head again and again and again until he was bald; completely, starkly bald, his bare scalp pale and patterned with blue veins. They spread across it like branches on a tree; like thin streams marked on a map. 

A little shakily, Dan lowered the razor and looked at himself in the mirror. He ran a hand over his head. His expression gave absolutely nothing away. 

Phil noticed a small piece remained behind his ear. Stepping forward, he gently took the razor from Dan’s hand.

‘You missed a bit,’ he said softly and turned it on, carefully cutting the piece off. It fell onto his shoes.

Phil wrapped his arms around Dan’s waist from behind and rested his chin on his shoulder. They both stared at Dan’s reflection in the mirror.

‘I look sick,’ Dan murmured. 

Phil didn’t respond. 

‘I look ugly.’

‘That is not true.’

Dan’s face twisted. ‘It is.’

‘Is not.’

‘I –’

Phil stopped him, putting a hand over Dan’s mouth and pressing his lips to his cheek. ‘Sh. You know you're not.’

Dan ran a hand over his head again, then looked down at the hair in the sink. ‘It is… oddly liberating.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Rest in peace, fringe,’ he mused. ‘There goes my whole branding.’

‘It had a good life.’

‘God rest its soul.’

‘It was happy in the end.’

They glanced at each other, and broke down laughing until their stomachs ached and their faces hurt from smiling.

-

That night, as they lay in Phil’s bed, Dan asked a question.

‘Do you still find me attractive?’

Phil nodded, forgetting Dan couldn't see him in the darkness. ‘Of course. There will never be a time when I don't think that.’

‘But, like…’ Dan sat up, his silhouette outlined in the faint light from the window. He sounded frustrated. ‘Do you still find me sexually attractive?’

Phil paused. ‘I haven’t thought much about it.’

‘Well. I sure as hell wouldn’t.’

Phil turned the bedside lamp on and looked at Dan. He was thinner and distinctly bald – his skin was pale and patched with faint bruises in places, but he was still Dan. Phil could still see some of the things he'd fallen for; the curve of his neck, his dark eyes, his lips, his hipbones, the indent of his spine in his back, leading down to his ass. Others had been stripped away; his wrists were thin and spindly, and the fullness of his face had been replaced by hollow, pallid cheeks and a sharp jawline. 

Yet, he was still Dan.

‘You look different. But you still look like you, and you’re gorgeous, so…’

Dan paused. ‘I don’t believe you.’

Phil sat up and placed his hand on Dan’s side. ‘Why?’

‘Because I don't understand how you could still find this –’ he gestured to himself, ‘attractive.’

Phil considered. ‘If it were me,’ he said carefully, ‘would you still think so?’

Dan opened his mouth, then seemed to decide against it. ‘I don't know. Probably.’

‘Well, there you go.’

Dan smiled ruefully. ‘I miss being able to just kiss and fuck whenever. I feel like I've ruined things.’

‘You haven't. We can still do that.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’ He smiled, pressing their lips together and kissing him slowly, running a hand down his arm. Dan sighed, leaning into the contact. He tipped his head back as Phil trailed kisses down his neck, tangling a hand in his hair.

‘I've missed this,’ he murmured.

‘What do you want to do?’ Phil asked, gently sucking a mark into his shoulder. 

Dan sighed. ‘Not sex. I… I just don't want to. Not at the moment. But this is nice.’ He smiled into Phil’s hair. ‘I've missed you.’

Phil nodded, understanding what he meant. ‘Missed you too.’ He pulled them down onto the pillows so Dan lay lazily across his chest, kissing slowly, in no particular rush. Absentmindedly, Phil raised his hand his hand to run his fingers through Dan’s hair, only to feel his bare scalp under his hands. Instead, he wrapped his hand around the back of Dan’s neck, trying to occupy himself with the feeling of Dan’s lips against his. 

‘This will never get old,’ Dan murmured. ‘I hope I don’t die. Imagine how much of this I’d miss out on.’

Phil shook his head. ‘You're not going to die. You’re going to get better. The next round of treatment will do it.’

‘I hope so.’

Quiet. Dan’s chin came to rest on Phil’s chest, on top of his own hand.

‘You’re supposed to realise all these things when you get sick. The value of life, how we should be thankful for every moment, how much we love and appreciate everyone around us, etcetera etcetera. But…’ he paused. ‘I haven't. I just haven't. Everything feels the same, except that I’m more scared than I used to be.’

Phil thought for a moment. ‘I bet you were aware of all of that stuff already, though.’

Dan shrugged, smiling ruefully. ‘Maybe.’ He turned onto his back, an arm over his forehead. ‘It's terrifying, though, isn't it?’

‘What is?’

‘How inescapably mortal we are.’

Silence. 

They rolled and assumed their usual position; Dan curled around Phil, an arm around his waist, his head resting on the back of his shoulder. ‘Are you scared?’ he murmured, yawning.

‘Hm?’

‘Of me dying.’

A pause. ‘Truthfully?’

Dan nodded. 

‘More than I’ve ever been scared anything.’

Dan didn't reply.

‘You know that, though.’

Silence.

‘It's… a weird feeling. It's the uncertainty I hate. I'm convinced you're going to be fine, but there's still this one part of me that worries and worries. I worry I’m not doing enough to help you. I worry you're in pain and not telling me.’ He sighs. ‘It's horrible. We’ve just been us – Dan and Phil – for so long that it’s gotten to the point where I can’t really imagine life without you. Yet here I am, being forced to. Do you know what I mean?’

No answer came from Dan, and Phil looked over his shoulder. He had fallen asleep.

He was a little miffed. Putting feelings into words had never been easy for him. That was Dan’s strong suit. Still, he rolled over and wrapped his arms around Dan and buried his head in the curve between his shoulder and his neck, pulling him close, breathing him in. 

He was here. He was okay. 

Everything was okay.

-

As Phil was reading, the sound of Dan’s piano suddenly filled the flat.

He stopped, tilting his head, listening. It was a sighing, yearning piece – not one he'd heard before. The notes floated up into the air and through the wall, and he stood up, leaning against it. The music swelled; he shivered in awe, entranced. 

It built and built and he waited for something to happen, anything, any moment now –

– and it suddenly stopped, and he felt as though the air had been punched right out of his lungs. 

He deflated, sinking back down onto his bed, strangely bereft. 

-

Dan’s parents visited halfway through the first week.

They brought flowers and an unreasonable amount of cake.

One evening, while Dan and his dad were in the kitchen, Dan’s mother pulled Phil aside.

‘He's not telling me much. I think he's trying to not worry me.’ She rubbed a hand over her face, sighing. ‘Please, Phil. Is he okay?’

Phil felt a twist of pain for her in his stomach. ‘Yeah, he is. The doctors reckon the next few rounds of chemo will start to push things in the right direction.’

She was still for a moment, then nodded. ‘Okay. Okay.’ She took a deep breath in, closing her eyes. ‘I didn't do the best job raising him, but God, I love that kid to death. I can't lose him.’

Phil looked down at his feet. ‘I won't let that happen.’

She breathed out shakily. Her voice was soft. ‘Thank you.’ A sad smile. ‘You're good for him.’

-

On the twelfth day of the two weeks, as soon as his parents left, Dan collapsed onto the sofa with his head in his hands. His face was screwed up as he rubbed his eyes, pressing the heels of his hands into his temples. 

‘Headache?’ Phil asked, concerned. 

Dan nodded. ‘Yeah. It's not bad, but it won't go away. My stomach hurts too.’

Phil frowned. ‘Should I call Dr. Hunt?’

Dan shook his head. ‘I think it's just the last of the side effects, or a cold. If it’s still here tomorrow I'll tell you and we’ll call.’

Phil hesitated, but conceded. ‘Okay. You should go to bed – sleeping might shift it.’

Dan nodded, yawning, and stood up lethargically. He brushed past Phil on his way to the bedroom, mumbling a goodnight and bumping their knuckles lightly together. Phil watched him go, walking slowly, the artificial light harsh on the pale skin of his head. 

Phil was alone in his own bed that night. He did not sleep much. 

It wasn't unusual. 

-

Dan seemed infinitely brighter in the morning, and Phil woke up to the sound of him clattering around in the kitchen.

He stood, rubbing his eyes, and made his way towards the sounds. Dan was standing in his pajamas, frying eggs. Two cups of coffee sat on the counter beside him. 

‘Morning,’ Phil yawned. He indicated the coffee. ‘Is that for me?’

Dan nodded, smiling. ‘Morning.’

‘You seem better,’ Phil said.

‘I actually feel alright today. Haven't had the drugs for a few days, so the side effects have worn off a bit.’

‘That's good.’ Phil smiled at him. ‘Is the headache gone?’

‘Yeah, I’m fine. Do you want eggs?’

‘Yes, please.’

They ate breakfast together on the sofa, the TV playing in the background while they chatted about nothing. It felt almost like how it was before – like normal. 

Phil found it funny how there was now a distinct Before and After in their lives. 

As they talked, Dan wrinkled his nose. ‘Can you smell that?’

Phil frowned. ‘Smell what?’

Dan’s brow furrowed. ‘I don't know. It's weird. Like… petrol?’

‘I can't smell it. You're probably imagining it.’

Dan nodded absently, not really paying attention, still sniffing the air. Phil watched in mild amusement as he stood, mug in hand, walking towards the kitchen. ‘I think it's in here.’

‘There's nothing there, Dan.’

‘No, I can smell something, it's –’

The sudden shattering sound of china hitting the floor rent the air. Phil started, head whipping towards the kitchen. It had gone totally silent.

‘What happened? Are you okay?’

A pause. ‘I… I dropped the mug.’

Phil got up, hurrying over to the kitchen. Dan was standing in the middle of the floor, staring down at the fragments of the mug at his feet. His face was oddly blank.

An uneasy chill formed in his gut. ‘Are you okay?’

No response.

‘Dan?’

Nothing.

It was only then that Phil noticed the odd twitching of Dan’s hand. 

Everything connected a second too late. 

Dan dropped to the floor too fast for Phil to react. 

He swore loudly as he fell to his knees beside Dan, dragging his hands through his own hair as Dan began to convulse violently, his eyes rolling back in his head until only the whites were visible. His arms curled awkwardly, wrists locked, fingers splayed unnaturally as he twitched. 

‘Oh, no,’ Phil muttered. ‘Oh, no. Shit, shit, shit – Dan, can you hear me?’ 

Dan choked, coughed, and his lips became flecked with red. 

Punching 999 into his phone with shaking, uncooperative fingers, he tried desperately to move the pieces of broken mug out of Dan’s way, holding onto his shoulder. He had started to turn a dusky shade of blue, and Phil let out a choked sound as he held his hand in front of Dan’s mouth, waiting for the tickle of his breath. It didn't come.

‘999, what service do you require?’

‘Ambulance! Please, I need an ambulance right now –’ 

‘What is your address, sir?’

He reeled it off without thinking, staring helplessly down as blood began to trickle from Dan’s nose. ‘It's my – my friend, he has leukaemia, he's having a seizure –’

‘I’m dispatching an ambulance now. Please stay on the line. Is your friend breathing?’

‘No, he's not, he's turning blue, please hurry – oh my God –’

‘Try to remain calm, sir. Is he still convulsing? How long has it been going on for now?’

‘Yes, and about a minute –’

‘Okay. The ambulance will be with you soon.’

Phil waited for what seemed like ten years, though it couldn't have been more than ten minutes. Dan stilled eventually, but wouldn’t wake up, and Phil could feel how lightly he was breathing. 

The sirens rang out and the paramedics hurried into the flat with tubes and bags and a stretcher, loading Dan onto it whilst Phil stood back, his hands in his hair, watching as they surrounded him, carrying him out of the flat and into the lift. They cut open his shirt, exposing the bunch of loose wire ends hanging out of the port in his chest.

Phil tried to follow into the ambulance, but a short paramedic blocked his way. ‘Sorry. Family only.’

Phil shook his head, trying to step past him. ‘No, you don't understand, he is my family –’

‘Sir, you said on the phone he was your friend –’

‘– Well, we’re together. He’s my family and I’m going with him. Let me through.’

He stepped around the man and climbed into the ambulance, shaking. He hated snapping at people. He sat down beside Dan and took his hand, resting his forehead against it, willing him to be okay. He looked almost dead; pale, bluish skin, bloody nose and lips, still as stone, innumerable tubes springing out of him this way and that. The oxygen mask over his face misted slightly with each breath – the only indication that the young man lying strapped to the stretcher was still alive.

The ambulance juddered to life and the sirens screamed, and he heard the noise in a whole new way. As he clung onto Dan’s hand like it would somehow anchor him here, Phil prayed for the first time in his life. 

-

They took Dan away for nine hours.

Phil sat in silence in the hospital café, staring into cup after cup of tea. After the sixth, he fell asleep on his arm. 

The sea was turbulent. He felt himself tossed, crushed under the colossal weight of a wave, pinned to the ground as the breath was sucked from his lungs. It floated above him in a stream of bubbles and through them he could see Dan’s face. His lips moved; he called out, shouting Phil’s name, but Phil couldn't reply, he was frozen in place, he couldn't get to him –

‘Phil?’

He jerked awake. Lillian was standing over him, her face creased with concern.

‘Are you okay?’ she asked. ‘Where’s Dan?’

He rubbed his eyes. ‘He had a seizure. They... took him away.’ He covered his face with his hands. ‘I don't know if he's okay.’

The sound of a chair scraping, then a hand touched Phil’s arm. ‘I’m so sorry.’

He looked up. ‘Don't say that. That makes it sound like he's dead.’ His voice was exhausted. ‘I thought he was getting better. I really thought we were making progress. He seemed so much brighter.’

Lillian’s tone was serious. ‘This isn't the end. The doctors here are incredible. He can still pull through.’ She leaned closer, speaking quietly. ‘A year ago, Andrea was given four months to live. Now she's almost in remission. There's always, always hope.’

Phil felt his gut wrench at the memory of blood bubbling from Dan’s mouth as he lay unconscious on the floor. ‘There better be. I can't lose him.’

Her face softened. ‘You really love him.’

‘I do.’ He looked down. ‘We don’t say it very often, because we know. But God help me, I do.’

She listened quietly.

‘I haven't actually cried yet. Not properly. I've come pretty close to losing it a couple of times, but it's never quite happened. I'm so scared, though. I'm terrified of him… not making it, because I honestly don't know how to live without him. I don't know what l’d do. It's been seven years, but it feels like my whole life. Almost everything I've done that I'm proud of – he's been there.’

He cleared his throat, swallowing the lump in it. 

‘I’m still hoping this was just a blip. Maybe it hasn't spread.’ He squeezed his eyes shut, voice fracturing. ‘Maybe.’

Silence.

‘Phil?’

He turned sharply. Dr. Hunt was standing behind him with a man in a lab coat Phil hadn’t seen before. 

‘Where is he? Is he okay?’ Phil asked urgently, getting to his feet.

The man nodded. ‘He's stable. We’ve sedated him, so he'll be asleep for a while. You can come see him now.’

-

Dan was asleep, the curtains drawn tight around his cubicle. Beeping machines surrounded him, and a cannula ran from behind his ears and into his nose.

He looked half dead. 

‘The scans came back,’ Hunt said gently.

Phil shook his head.

‘Phil?’

‘I don't want to know.’

A pause. The male doctor shifted uncomfortably.

‘It's metastasised.’

Phil put his head in his hands, letting out a long breath before speaking. ‘Where?’

‘Liver and brain.’

He looked up, aghast. ‘Brain?’

Hunt nodded.

‘Prognosis?’

‘...Not good.’

He closed his eyes. ‘How long?’

‘It's not quite at that point yet. We’ll need to put him on high-dose chemotherapy from now on, and we’ll probably switch him from ara-C to procarbazine. I’m scheduling him in for surgery on Thursday to remove the mass on his liver while it's still small. Surgery on the brain tumour isn’t possible – it's small, but too entangled with blood vessels. We wouldn't gain access to it without risking killing him. He may need a bone marrow transplant to aid the chemotherapy.’ She adjusted a pin in her hijab. ‘AML is notoriously aggressive. It can go from early stages to fatal in the space of very few months. It is possible that while we caught it just before metastasis, it had been affecting him for a while beforehand. Diagnosis does not represent the start of the disease.’

Phil glanced over at Dan. His eyes were still closed, breaths light and coarse, fast asleep. Turning back to the doctors, he spoke quietly. ‘Be honest. Is he going to die?’

Hunt’s countenance was stoic. ‘It is still hard to say. The survival rate for AML is about 26%. Dan has now transitioned to the later stages.’ She knelt down in front of Phil. ‘We are still going to do everything in our power to help him. There are options, and experimental treatments, and our oncology department is one of the best in London. People beat cancer every day. Just look at little Andrea.’

The corner of his mouth lifted a little.

‘We are against the odds, at this point. It's touch and go. I won't lie.’ She stood. ‘I recommend you see a counsellor. The stress of this may get to you. You've lost weight,’ she remarked. ‘I can refer you to someone myself, if you'd like.’

Phil shook his head. ‘I’m fine, really.’

The doctors left. A new nurse replaced Mary and Adam – a young woman called Sarah, with a round face and kind eyes. She checked Dan’s stats, adjusting a dial on his IV, then moved on to the next patient. 

They were in a different ward, now. It was quieter here. 

Phil didn't like it.

He looked back at Dan, sleeping quietly – not quite peacefully, but quietly. The harsh white glare of the hospital lights played on his skin, turning it ivory pale. Phil couldn't quite believe they'd been eating breakfast together contentedly just this morning. 

The nurse passed again, and he called out, catching her attention. 

‘Sorry, when do I have to go?’

She hesitated, then shook her head. ‘You don't. I can get you a fold-out bed, if you want.’ 

‘Oh, okay. Yeah, thank you.’ He smiled at her. She returned it, bustling away quickly, clipboard in hand. 

When Phil turned back to Dan, his eyes were open. 

He sat forward, shuffling closer. ‘Hey,’ he said softly.

Dan managed a small smile. ‘Hey.’

‘How are you feeling?’

Dan shifted, wincing a little. ‘Tired. Where am I?’

‘St. Michaels. Like usual.’

‘...I was at home, though.’

Phil grimaced. ‘You had a seizure.’

‘What?’

‘Yeah.’

Dan’s face transitioned through several expressions, then settled on apprehension. ‘Was it… Was it related to the headache from last night?’

‘...In a way.’

He didn't reply for a moment. Then, his eyes slid away from Phil to stare expressionlessly at the wall ahead of him. ‘It's spread, hasn't it?’

Phil nodded, looking down. 

A pause. ‘Oh.’

‘Liver and brain. They're going to operate the day after tomorrow and then start radiation.’ 

Dan didn't respond. His face gave nothing away.

‘Aren't you… shocked?’

He shook his head. ‘...No. Just kind of numb. It’ll hit me soon.’

Phil felt as though he'd been punched in the gut. Dan sounded so fucking resigned to it.

Dan sat up gingerly, then frowned. His hand flew to his face; touched the tube in his nose. ‘The fuck is this?’

‘Don't know. Helps you breathe, I think.’ He pulled Dan’s arm down to the bed. ‘I wouldn't fiddle with it.’

‘It feels so weird.’ He wrinkled his nose, then flopped back onto the pillows, arms around his midriff. His wrists were painfully thin. 

Phil rested his head in his hands, suddenly exhausted. ‘I’m allowed to stay here with you, now.’

Dan smiled a little, not opening his eyes. ‘That's good.’ He sighed. ‘I’m so tired.’

Phil rested his forehead on Dan’s hand, then felt fingers slide into his hair, running through it, stroking it softly. ‘Sleep.’

‘Mm. Can't.’

‘Why?’ Phil murmured. 

A beat. ‘Will you… Will you come here?’

Phil looked up. ‘Hm?’

Dan shuffled over in his bed, and patted the space next to him. His voice was quiet. ‘Please.’

Phil nodded, understanding, and climbed into bed with Dan. It was a small space, and he shuffled closer, wrapping his arms around Dan and pulling him to his chest. Dan buried his face in Phil’s shirt, curling his fingers in the fabric, breathing him in. Their legs tangled. This position felt different; Dan was usually the one one wrapped around Phil, arms wound around his waist. It had been a long time since Dan had needed to feel protected.

This felt like seven years ago. This felt like Manchester.

Dan fell asleep quickly, and the ward lights turned out. Phil rested his cheek on Dan’s head and listened to his light breaths and let his thoughts fly away on them. He was dying. Dan was dying, officially, and they were now fighting not just against the sickness, but time itself. Nothing still felt quite real; he always half-expected to blink and find them in their apartment again, Dan loud and happy and bright with a full head of hair, not pale and thin and bruised and bald. The fact that it had spread still hadn't quite hit him.

He pulled him a bit closer. This man couldn't die; he was a bloody force of nature. Things like Dan didn’t just disappear. This man was the sun and the stars and everything in between; he was a miracle, and Phil was so fucking in love that it hurt. Sleep slowly reeled him in, and as he dozed he thought of how rarely he told Dan. They knew; he knew that's why it wasn't something they said freely. Phil liked that it meant something when they said it; it was a reassurance, an ultimate confirmation, a quiet comfort. They’d made it something unique to them, just by the way they used it.

He didn't need to say it, but he still did. He whispered it into Dan’s skin, his shirt, into the filtered air of the hospital. He reassured himself of it. He was fiercely, proudly in love, and that would be enough for now.

-

@danielhowell tweeted: my cancer has spread. I am taking an indefinite hiatus from making videos. i’m okay, and i’m still going to get better. don't worry. thank you for all the support 

-

The surgery lasted five hours.

It should have taken four.

-

Louise visited while Dan was still in theatre. They sat in the ward next to Dan’s bed, facing each other. Phil was suddenly conscious of how shit he must have looked. He hadn't left the hospital in days. 

‘How's he doing? I talked to him on the phone last week and he seemed okay – relatively speaking,’ Louise said, squeezing the bridge of her nose. ‘I don't understand how all this could have happened so fast. It’s only been a few months.’

‘We didn't catch it fast enough,’ Phil mumbled, yawning. ‘I should have made him go to the doctors’ earlier.’

She reached over and took his hands gently, forcing him to look at her. ‘Hey. None of this is your fault. It's just the way it is.’

‘I know. It's just…’ he sighed. ‘I want to blame somebody, but there's no one. I keep thinking, though – what if I had made him go earlier?’

‘You know bloody well you can't make him do anything. Nobody can. He’ll dig his heels in like you’re dragging him into the pits of hell if he decides he doesn't want to do something.’

Phil laughs a little. ‘True.’

She takes a sip of her drink. ‘How long until he's out? I got him a present.’

‘Don't know. He should be almost done, by now. Let's see it,’ Phil said, leaning forward as Louise rummaged in her handbag for the gift. She unearthed an envelope with Dan’s name printed neatly on it. 

‘It’s a voucher for a one-on-one photography lesson with an expert. He was telling me he wanted to get better at it, so I thought… yeah.’ She smiled. ‘I hope he’ll like it.’

‘Of course he will! That's so lovely,’ Phil said warmly, taking the envelope and turning it over in his hands. ‘Can he choose when it is?’

‘Yeah. It’s just a question of whether he’ll be well enough.’

‘Hm.’

Movement in Phil’s peripheral vision caught his eye and he looked up. Dr. Hunt was walking down the ward towards him.

He stood. ‘Any news?’

‘It’s done. He's stable; sleeping in the recovery room. He’ll wake up soon. You can come see him now.’

Louise looked a little uncertain, and Phil beckoned her forward. ‘Come on. He’ll be happy to see you.’

Dan lay in a small curtained-off cubicle in a long ward filled with ones just like it. He was fast asleep, lying on his back with an oxygen mask over his mouth and various tubes trailing out of him this way and that, feeding him blood and water and morphine. His chest was exposed and a slightly bloody bandage was taped over his abdomen. Louise covered her mouth at the sight of him – Phil had forgotten she hadn't actually seen him in real life – and she sat down beside him, resting her hand on his arm. 

‘I… didn't realise,’ she said carefully, her voice shaking a little, ‘how sick he would look.’

Phil didn't reply. He stood beside Dan, brushing his fingers lightly over his hand. 

Dan stirred, shifting slightly, and they both leaned forward. His brows drew together and he mumbled something.

‘Dan?’ Louise said tentatively. 

He opened his eyes lethargically, glancing around until he found the source of the voice. A small smile touched his lips. ‘Louise.’

‘Hey. How you doing?’

‘M’tired. Where…?’

‘Recovery room,’ Phil said. ‘They took the tumour off your liver, remember?’

He frowned, then nodded, yawning. ‘Oh, yeah.’ He tried to sit up and promptly hissed in pain, looking down at the gauze on his abdomen. ‘Shit.’

‘Moving probably isn't the best idea,’ Louise remarked. ‘Given you've just had half your guts ripped out.’

‘Part of one gut. Get it right,’ Dan retorted, disguising a smile, closing his eyes again. ‘Everything is… weird.’

Phil and Louise made eye contact over the bed, and tried to cover a laugh. 

‘Morphine?’ Louise asked. 

Phil nodded, grinning. Dan grunted. 

‘Alright, sleeping beauty, wake up. I've got you a present,’ Louise said, pulling her bag into her lap and fishing the envelope out.

Dan opened one eye. ‘Really?’

‘Mhm.’ She handed him the envelope. He took it carefully, trying not to jog the wire in his hand, tearing it open with his thumb. A black slip of paper with some white font on it fell out, and his eyes flicked over it curiously.

‘Do you like it?’ she said.

He was quiet for a moment, staring at the paper. ‘Did you really get me this?’

She nodded, smiling. ‘Is it –’

‘Thank you so much,’ he said, a proper grin stretching across his face. ‘This is amazing. Thank you.’

They hugged somewhat awkwardly – Dan’s position wasn't ideal for it – and Phil listened contentedly while they chatted about anything and everything. Dan was tired and sore and pale but animated, and Phil still couldn't quite believe he was as sick as he was. 

-

On a Tuesday where Dan insisted he was feeling a little better, Phil took him to St. James’ Park in a wheelchair. It was only a twenty minute walk from the hospital. 

The air was turning cooler, in that early autumn way where the breeze is crisper and the plants start to to take on a touch of rusty orange colour. Dan sat contentedly, looking around, squinting in the bright sunlight. He had a packet of peanuts in his lap – the squirrels were tame here. They ran up to him and stopped about a foot away, twitching and cautious, eyeing the nut in his outstretched hand, before tentatively scampering nearer and taking it before bolting away. One climbed up his leg into his lap and he stilled, mouth open, glancing up at Phil and indicating the squirrel. It rummaged through the plastic packet and jammed a nut in its mouth, then sat there nibbling on it for a second. Dan was grinning, staring down in part-awe, part-fear at the creature. He snorted, trying to hold back a laugh, and it leapt off and scurried away. Phil grinned as Dan leaned back in his chair and clapped his hands together, laughing.

They bought ice cream later. Dan didn't want anything, and Phil felt a little bad for eating in front of him. 

The park was huge and it was Dan’s favourite kind of weather, so they walked for hours, stopping periodically at benches so Phil could rest his arms – Dan still wasn’t exactly light. 

Dan tilted his head up and sniffed the air. ‘You can smell it,’ he mused.

‘What?’

‘Autumn.’ He closed his eyes, smiling a bit. 

Phil looked at him, taking a breath in. ‘What is it like?’

He considered, concentrating. ‘I don't know. It's… it's crisp, and tangy, and kind of… sharp?’

Phil laughed. ‘How can you smell sharpness?’

‘You just can. You know what I mean,’ Dan said, elbowing him. Phil yelped.

‘Jesus Christ, I'll tell you what is sharp. Your elbow.’ He rubbed his side. ‘Watch it.’

Dan grinned, and threw a nut to a squirrel that had been hovering nearby. Late August sunlight filtered through the trees onto his face, turning his brown eyes a deep amber. Phil giggled as he watched Dan cuss out a particularly greedy pigeon pecking around his feet. 

They got back to hospital as the sky started to turn lilac with evening. Dan was hungry for the first time in a while, so they ate in the café before heading up to Dan’s ward. 

They fell asleep listening to Muse, sharing one pair of headphones.

-

Another month came and went.

Dan got worse.

He rarely left his bed now except to go to the bathroom or throw up, and slept through most of the day. When he was awake it was only to lie down and half-heartedly watch movies. He barely even went on his laptop anymore, saying the screen hurt his eyes. 

Phil devoured book after book after book. He felt awful, but it was fucking mind-numbingly boring here. Still – there was no way in hell he was leaving Dan alone when he was like this. 

One morning, he woke up to a hand shaking his shoulder and a panicked voice in his ear.

‘Phil. Phil, wake up.’

He rubbed his eyes, then suddenly snapped awake. ‘Dan? What is it? What's wrong?’’

‘I can't see, Phil. There's a spot. Left side. I can't see past it.’ His breaths came too fast. ‘It was there when I woke up. It won't go away.’

Phil felt a small knot of dread manifest in his stomach. ‘Okay. Try to – uh – try to relax.’ He felt like a complete hypocrite. ‘I'll get someone.’

He hurried through the ward, jogging up to the desk at the front where a nurse sat, filling out some paperwork. She glanced up, and her expression grew concerned when she saw the look on his face.

‘Hi, uh – can you get Dr. Hunt? It's about Dan Howell,’ he said urgently. 

The nurse stood. ‘Of course. What’s the problem?’

‘He says he can’t see properly.’

She nodded, and picked up the phone beside her, tapping in a number. 

‘Requesting Noora Hunt immediately in Ward 34B, Oncology, concerning patient –’ she looked at Phil, mouthing ‘what was his name?’

‘Dan Howell,’ he whispered.

‘– Dan Howell.’

She listened for a moment, then nodded and put down the phone. ‘She'll be up in a second. Wait with him.’

Dan was sitting cross-legged in his bed, fists balled tight, staring straight ahead. He glanced over at Phil from the side of his eye as he walked back to him, and a strange look crossed his face.

‘What's up?’ Phil said apprehensively, stopping where he was.

Dan didn't speak for a moment, then he waved a hand at Phil. ‘Take one step back.’

Phil did, confused.

Dan’s eyes didn't leave him. ‘Weird,’ he mumbled.

‘What is?’

‘Can't see your face there. The spot is in the way.’

Phil laughed nervously, and took up his usual spot by the bed. ‘Do I look like Slenderman?’

Dan gave a humourless smile. ‘Kind of.’

It was silent for a moment, then Phil suddenly looked up. ‘Did you know Dr. Hunt’s real name is Noora?’

A proper, albeit small, smile curved Dan’s lips. ‘Really?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Huh.’ He considered. ‘I thought it would be something… scarier. I don't know. She's fucking intimidating.’

‘I think she's nice.’

‘Still intimidating, though. She's almost as tall as me.’

‘I know. Noora seems like a name a sweet little grandma might have.’ 

Dan nodded, smiling, but there was still a faint look of fear on his face. 

Dr. Hunt appeared less than ten minutes later with a nurse in tow. 

‘What does the spot look like?’ she asked. ‘Is it dark, or coloured, or…?’

Dan frowned. ‘It's…’ he squinted, tilting his head. ‘It's not really anything. It's just like a bit of my vision is missing. Like… there's a hole.’

They referred him down to an ophthalmologist. Hunt pulled Phil aside.

‘I’m going to get an MRI of his brain and spine today.’

Phil frowned. ‘Spine?’

‘Sometimes, changes in the cerebrospinal fluid can cause vision impairment. An MRI will help uncover the cause. It'll also mean we can check on the brain tumour again – there's a possibility it may have had a growth spike. The pressure it causes in his head could easily affect his vision.’

‘Is that fixable?’

‘I will ask. The likelihood is that he’ll be considered too ill for surgery that major. It could kill him.’

Phil looked down. ‘He's getting worse. I can see it.’

Hunt didn't reply.

‘Catching it early was supposed to mean he'd get better quickly. He wasn’t supposed to have to suffer.’

‘It's not always the case, unfortunately.’ Her tone was gentle. ‘You cannot give up, though. That would be worse for him than any medical complication.’

‘I’m not going to. He's going to live.’ He shifted on his feet, staring down the corridor. ‘It just might take a while.’ 

-

The next evening, Phil went home.

Dan had told him he didn't want him there.

He stood in the kitchen for a while, staring at the plate he'd left in the empty sink. It had a trace of that orange curry sauce Dan liked on it.

He threw it on the floor. It smashed into a thousand razor-sharp fragments. 

Metastasised.

CSF and lymph nodes.

Uncontrollable tumour growth.

Massive intracranial pressure.

Treatment no longer effective.

Transition to end-of-life care recommended.

He was going to die.

Phil weighed himself that night. He'd lost four kilos. While he was in the bathroom, he caught sight of his reflection. Pale, haggard, the bags under his bloodshot eyes dark as night. He hadn't straightened his hair in months; it was a little wavy. Greasy, too. His skin was almost as sickly white as Dan’s.

He punched the mirror. It didn't break. His hand hurt a lot.

They'd given them six weeks, on the outside. It could be days. 

He sat on the edge of his own neatly made bed, head in his hands. His own room felt alien. 

Dan would be asleep at the end. It would be peaceful.

Before that, though, would come the blindness and the vomiting and the ataxia and the memory loss. He would suffer; it would not be fast. He may not remember faces.

That was what terrified Phil the most. The idea that Dan could forget. 

When Hunt had called them into her office and laid out the MRIs before them and passed the death sentence, Dan had been still and silent as a stone. His face had been absolutely emotionless as he was told how much time he had left on earth, but as Phil had glanced over he'd noticed the slight clenching and unclenching of his jaw. He knew that movement. Dan was fighting to keep it together.

Back at the ward, he'd bluntly told Phil to go home. Phil had protested at first, then Dan had said something that shut him up.

‘Please, just go. I have about one thousand hours left to live, and I don't want to waste any of them fighting with you.

He'd left after that.

There wasn’t much in-date food in the house. Phil went to bed at seven PM.

A text from Dan arrived hours later.

come back tomorrow evening  
I need you here  
you’ll understand

He replied quickly.

-I’ll be there 

Sleep came at one in the morning.

-

Dan was asleep when Phil arrived. 

Dr. Hunt called him into her office as he walked through the corridor. They were going to move Dan to the palliative care ward. His place in the current ward would go to someone with half a chance of surviving. He would have his own room – a quiet place to die.

‘Can't he –’ Phil took a deep breath, collecting himself. ‘Can't he come home?’

Hunt shook her head. ‘The level of care he needs and will continue to require in the next few weeks is beyond your capabilities. It would be much more painful for everyone involved. At least here, he’ll have full access to medicine to keep him comfortable.’ She smiled gently at him. ‘That's what the palliative care team aim to do. Make sure he’s comfortable.’

Something occurred to Phil. ‘Now that he's – now that he isn't having treatment anymore, will we see less of you?’

She nodded. ‘I’ll still be involved as the leader of his care team, but it'll mostly be behind the scenes now.’

A strange feeling manifested in Phil’s gut. ‘Oh.’

Hunt seemed to deliberate for a moment, then spoke. ‘It’s been a pleasure knowing you. I wish it were under different circumstances.’ There was an odd look on her face. ‘I'm so sorry about Dan. We did everything we could. These things shouldn't happen.’

Phil shook his head. ‘It's okay.’ He looked her directly in the eyes. ‘Thank you. I really mean it. For everything.’

‘It's my job,’ she said, but there was a softness to her tone that said enough for Phil. 

They stood, and for a moment Phil thought they might hug. Instead, however, she gave a polite smile and a quick nod and hurried out of the room.

Dan was asleep in his bed. The ward was peaceful – a low hum of quiet conversation underscored the sound of machines beeping, and Dan looked almost serene as he lay on his back, head resting on his own shoulder.

Phil sat down quietly next to him, watching the slow dripping of a clear liquid into a wire connected to his arm. Pale autumn sunlight filtered through the window and cast soft shadows over his face. Phil let his eyes wander over it, trying to memorise every detail, searching for anything he hadn’t known was there. It still hadn’t quite sunk in that, come the new year, Phil would never see this face again. 

He glanced over to the bedside table. Dan’s laptop sat upon it, closed, with something papery peeking out from underneath. An envelope.

Phil frowned. Something was written on it; he could make out a P and a H.

Curiosity seized him. Sneaking a glance over at Dan – sound asleep – he reached over and carefully pulled the envelope out from under the laptop. It was plain white, and fairly new, and his name was written on the back in Dan’s familiar scrawl.

It was for him. He was allowed.

Hooking his thumb underneath the top flap, he tore it open as quietly as possible, wincing as it ripped loudly. Dan shifted a little, frowning, but didn't wake.

There were a couple of sheets of paper inside, covered in Dan’s messy script. He unfolded them apprehensively. His eyes scanned over the words.

> _  
> _
> 
> Phil.
> 
> First off, I’m sorry about what I said yesterday. I needed to make you go home so I could sort everything out, and that was the fastest way to do it. I'm sorry.
> 
> It was true, though, that I have around a thousand hours left to live. It doesn't sound like a lot, does it? Six weeks seems like an endless amount of time, but one thousand hours… it’s nothing. It’s the same amount of time no matter which way you look at it, though, and either way it's not enough. It's nowhere near enough. It’s unfair, isn’t it? My life is pretty much over, and I’m twenty-five years old. I will never have children, never visit places I want to see, never get a dog, never grow old with you. I’m fucking heartbroken. It just seems unjust. Where are the other sixty or so years I was counting on having? 

__  


He suddenly became aware that he was gripping the paper far too tight in hand. Swallowing the odd lump in his throat, he read on.

> _  
> _
> 
> I suppose, even if I'd lived to a hundred, it still wouldn't have seemed like enough time. Not enough time to make sure you know how much you are to me. We can say ‘I love you’ all we want, but that doesn't prove anything. I want to show you; it would take an eternity. Forever wouldn't be enough time.
> 
> Still. I love you beyond speech. I love you more than any words can do justice. You are my family, my best friend, my soulmate, my everything. More importantly, you were my turning point. Everything in my life up until meeting you was a steady downhill into a very dark place, and you snatched me right out of there just as I was beginning to think that this was all there was. You ruined me, in the best way possible. I am the person I am today because of you.
> 
> I’m writing this while thinking of your voice and your stupid smile and your multicolour eyes and I’m crying, damn it, because I don't want to leave you. It’s not as if I’m any less bereaved than you. More, in fact. My whole life, all these plans I had - we had - they're all gone. As dead as me. And I’m losing you, too. Our lives are entangled to the point where they basically constitute one life, now. We’re in this together, sharing this great big experience of being mortal together. So you can understand how me dying on you feels like I’m sending you off alone into the fucking abyss. I feel guilty – how stupid is that? Guilty! Like there’s anything I could do to stop this mess. 

__  


There was a knife twisting in his stomach and his jaw was clenched hard, because _oh dear God this hurts, this hurts so bad_ , and the words seem to be swimming a little before him.

> _  
> _
> 
> I wouldn't want you to come with me, though, because I doubt we'd be together anyway. Death is a void – there's no afterlife. I'm at peace with that. But I read this thing ages ago in a book by CS Lewis, and he said this one thing that stuck with me. It was something along the lines of ‘surely it matters not whether you cut one or both telephone lines when people are on a call. Either way, the conversation must end.’
> 
> I feel so pretentious, putting metaphors to our situation. It’s difficult, my love, because I'm trying to get lovely words to fit around something so very ugly. There is nothing beautiful or deep or about this. It is a fucking tragedy.
> 
> I wrote my will earlier. It felt less weird than I thought it would. There were a lot of forms to sign – it's funny, isn't it? The business of death. The legal side of dying. Can't escape the institution, even by snuffing it. Sorting through all our belongings, though, made me realise how much stuff we mutually own. Pretty much the only things that are mine are in my room. My clothes will go to charity, unless you want any of them. I've split almost everything else between you and the rest of my family. Sell the bed. Convert the room into a filming studio, or something else useful. 
> 
> The piano is going to you. Just before I was diagnosed, I'd booked piano lessons to start in the new year. Since I probably won't make it to then, I want you to go to them instead. Learn to play. You've got good hands for it – long fingers – and you're musical. This is the only thing I’m going to ask you to do once I'm dead – the rest is up to you. I won't burden you with any dying wishes. Keep making videos, or don't. Move out, or don't. Fall in love again, or don't. But learn piano. I'd always said to myself that I'd teach you when I was good enough, which was a stupid vow in hindsight. It allowed endless opportunity for procrastination. 

__  


His cheeks are wet, and he's smiling. Why is he smiling?

> _  
> _
> 
> You know what else is stupid? The fact that I’ve always thought the greatest, hardest gift to give would be to die for someone. I was… mistaken. It’s not. Living for someone is, and that's the one thing I can't do for you, Phil.
> 
> We had a good run, though, didn't we? The radio show, Japan, the book, the tour, the other book, the movies – it’s more than most people can say they've done with their best friend. Those are just the big things, though. For every one of those there's a million little moments and accomplishments that are so, so important to me. Walking on the beach against the wind, kissing on the Manchester Eye, fucking to Frank Ocean and breaking the sofa, climbing the O2, me sobbing into my pillow after that one time we almost broke up, sitting in a sky bar with you there smiling and looking like a goddamn angel; these are what keep me going. These moments, where we’re like that – so close to each other, feeling to the point of pain – they're what it means to be alive. 
> 
> I’m glad I got to experience them, and I'm glad I got to experience them with you. I'm glad I stalked you online, I'm glad you replied, I'm glad we met and made PINOF 1, I’m glad you became my best friend and the love of my life. 

__  


He cracked.

> _  
> _
> 
> I'm so glad I found you.
> 
> It's been short, but it's been good. 
> 
> Yours, for as long as you’ll let me be -
> 
> Dan.

__  


He shattered.

The floodgates opened; the wall crumbled. 

Phil was undone.

He doubled over, pressing his face into his arms where they rested against the bed, and felt himself turned inside out with grief. It was ugly, and he sucked in shuddering breaths, trying to muffle the horrible sound of his own sobbing. He couldn’t wake Dan up, he couldn’t let Dan see this –

– but it was too late; there was a hand in his hair, stroking it gently, and it’s like the pain was multiplied by a thousand. He choked, curling his fingers into fists in the sheets, feeling Dan’s fingers thread through strands of his hair, brushing it out of his face. Raising his head, vision blurry, he saw Dan there with a small, rueful smile on his face and the sight tore another sob from his throat. Dan’s hands held both sides of Phil’s face, carefully wiping away stray tears with the pads of his thumbs, before pulling him to his chest and burying his face in his hair. 

Phil closed his eyes, trying to control his breathing, syncing it to the steady beats of Dan’s heart. His throat was raw.

‘You weren't supposed to read that yet,’ came a soft voice from above him. 

Phil half-laughed. ‘Sorry.’

‘I was going to give it to you tonight,’ Dan murmured. ‘I had this whole thing planned. I was going to…’ He trailed off.

Phil pulled away to look at him. ‘What?’

There was a silence. Dan bit his lip, then let out a hoarse laugh and covered his face. ‘Fuck. This is so far from how I planned it.’

At this point, Phil was starting to get nervous. ‘What is it?’

Dan closed his eyes, then opened them slowly, and seemed to deliberate for a second. He leaned forward, looking straight into Phil’s eyes. ‘I…’

Phil swallowed.

‘Fuck. Shit. This is so fucking stupid,’ Dan said, frustrated, casting his eyes upwards.

‘Spit it out.’

‘Marry me!’ Dan blurted out. ‘I was going to ask you to marry me. You know, since – but I know it's not something we – ah, shit. This is the opposite of how it was supposed to go, but… there. I said it.’

Silence. The words hung, suspended in the air. 

‘Please for the love of God say something. You cannot leave me hanging on a thing like that.’

Phil was speechless. 

‘Phil.’

A smile began to curve his mouth. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Completely! Please, I’m genuinely begging you –’

‘Yes.’ He didn't have to think about it; the word felt as natural as breathing. ‘Yes. Oh my God, yes. I'll marry you.’

Dan’s face split into a blinding grin for the first time in weeks. ‘Really?’

‘Yes!’ Phil surged forward and kissed him, feeling Dan’s smile against his lips. It was adoring and euphoric and bittersweet, and Phil felt a sudden wetness against his cheek.

He pulled back. Dan’s eyes were red. 

‘Are you okay? Why are you crying? Does it hurt –?’

‘No, Phil, you idiot.’ Dan laughed tearfully, wiping his face. ‘I’m happy. I’m so fucking happy.’

They hugged, and Phil buried his face in Dan’s shoulder. ‘Thought you'd never ask,’ Phil mumbled.

Dan laughed into Phil’s hair. ‘You ruined the moment. I was going to do a big spiel after you read the letter.’

‘I was going to ask you next time we went to Japan. You beat me to it.’ He grinned. ‘Arsehole.’

‘Fuck right off. You should have done it the first time.’

Phil rolled his eyes. ‘It wasn't really a thing we had properly considered at the time.’

‘Fair enough. It's only when you hit thirty and had your little crisis –’

‘It was not a crisis.’

‘You threatened to quit YouTube.’

‘...I was drunk.’

‘Very.’

‘Shut up. I’ll divorce you.’

‘We’re not married yet.’

‘Close enough.’

-

As it quickly transpired, marriage ceremonies were tiring and expensive and full of paperwork and really, really not their thing.

So, instead, Phil bought two rings online, and a week later they exchanged them in the hospital garden outside Dan’s new room. Dan’s ring was dark, holographic metal. Phil’s was shiny, polished silver. 

Then, they wore the rings, filled out no paperwork, and decided to simply be married.

That night, as they were watching a movie on Dan’s laptop, Dan murmured something.

‘I just realised,’ he said, not looking away from the film.

‘What?’ Phil said, glancing over at him. 

Dan smiled a little. ‘I get to spend the rest of my life with you.’

-

Time moved too fast.

They occupied themselves with little necessary task after little necessary task - nothing too strenuous, but things that needed to be done before, as they’d taken to saying, It Happens. Both were silently aware of the fact that time was short. Soon, Dan would be too ill to do anything.

Soon. Phil hated that word.

He could see how much Dan had started to deteriorate. His vision was steadily decreasing, and the hospital had him on an almost constant supply of painkillers to keep the headaches at bay. Several times, Phil noticed his fingers twitching, only for him to ball them tightly into fists when he noticed Phil was watching. His diet had been reduced to ice cubes and chips, plus the nutrients supplied by one of his various tube - anything else came straight back up, and Dan didn’t want to eat it in the first place.

He’d started to forget, too. Just little things. Nothing important. What day of the week it was, what he had been saying, what the nurse’s name was. 

It was slow.

Until, on a Wednesday, while the nurse was changing his catheter, he nudged Phil.

He looked over at him.

‘I can’t see out of my left eye,’ he murmured.

Phil felt his blood run cold. ‘At all?’

Dan shook his head, almost imperceptibly. ‘It’s gone.’

-

‘No. Absolutely fucking not.’

‘Phil -’

‘I won't do that, Dan! I can’t!’

‘What if you don’t have a choice? Would you rather I lay there suffering for another month?’

‘I - of course not -’

‘Then sign it. Sign the damn form.’

Phil stared down in disgust at the piece of paper before him. ‘You’re asking me to kill you.’

Dan laughed, then broke into a fit of coughing. Phil instinctively leaned over to rub his back. 

‘Kill me. What utter horseshit,’ he spat hoarsely. ‘I’m asking you to be the one to put me out of my misery when - if - I’m no longer able to make my own decisions. It’s a life support switch, Phil. Not a gun.’

‘Might as well be!’

Dan leaned forward, his head angled slightly to the right so he could see Phil. ‘I’m asking you to do it because I trust you. I trust you to know when it’s time. Will you not grant me that mercy? Some security in knowing it’ll be quick?’

Phil put his head in his hands. ‘You’re phrasing it like I’m deliberately hurting you. You don’t seem to understand the weight you’re putting on me. If it was me, would you be able to do it? Knowing that I’d die if you did?’

‘Yes! Because I care about you, and I can see past my own fucking grief!’

Phil stared at Dan, and Dan stared, unwavering, right back. There was a long silence.

‘Fine,’ he said flatly. ‘Fine. Only because I don’t - I don’t want you to be in pain.’

Dan’s face softened a little. ‘Thank you,’ he said quietly.

Phil signed Dan’s proverbial death warrant with slightly more force than was necessary. ‘This,’ he murmured, ‘is not in any way easy for me.’

‘I know,’ Dan said. ‘But it's necessary. It probably won't come to —’

The words stopped coming mid-sentence, slurring together a little. He blinked.

‘Dan?’

That odd, unfocused look he got more and more often nowadays glazed over his eyes. He stared at Phil for a moment, a slight frown creasing his brow, then suddenly shook his head and smiled. 

‘Sorry, what were we talking about?’

Phil felt his gut wrench, and he forced a smile onto his face. ‘Nothing. Don’t worry.’

As discretely as was possible, he took the legal papers off the bed.

They talked for a few more minutes about nothing much, then Dan fell asleep, and Phil was left very much alone in the weak November sunlight.

-

The doctors told them Dan probably wouldn’t make it to Christmas.

Phil nodded along as they spoke, not really listening, twisting his ring round and round his finger. His own lack of pain disturbed him, yet it was somehow comforting at the same time. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt too much, when it happened.

‘I’m not ready to go,’ Dan whispered that evening through his oxygen mask.

Phil didn’t have the slightest clue what to say to that.

‘Still got stuff to do. I was going to write you a letter,’ he mumbled indistinctly. ‘Was gonna ask you to marry me…’ The words slurred together.

Phil picked up Dan’s hand to show him the ring on his finger. ‘You did that already. It's okay.’

Dan stared at it through half-shut eyes. ‘Oh.’ He blinked. ‘That's nice.’

A small smile curved his lips. The dimple in his cheek appeared, and Phil felt a dull ache in his chest at the sight of it.

He leaned down and kissed Dan’s knuckles. ‘You don't go without me next to you, okay?’

Dan gazed at him through glazed eyes and nodded slightly. 

He hadn’t understood. Phil could tell.

-

Dan went blind on a Tuesday.

It was quick, at least. He simply woke up with barely a sliver of vision left.

He was distraught. There was a lot of hoarse whimpering and panicked, choked breaths at first, then after about an hour he went quiet. Phil sat and let Dan crush his hand as he lay there, staring blankly at the ceiling, his brown eyes oddly empty. To be honest, Phil would have preferred the hysteria to this.

The doctors and nurses said it was to be expected. They’d warned him it might happen, but it was usually a gradual process. There was a small amount of people who simply… lost it, though, and Dan just happened to be in that small amount. 

His life had been reduced to a statistic. He was the 74%.

‘Phil,’ Dan murmured at some point that day.

Phil looked up from his book. It was his 3rd time reading it, and he wasn’t sure if he’d actually taken in any of the last ten pages.

‘What if I forget what you look like, Phil? I won’t be able to see you to remind myself.’

It was like a slap to the face, even though he knew Dan didn’t mean it that way. ‘You won’t.’ 

‘That’s not really something you can say. We don’t know, at this point. We don’t know anything.’ His tone was soft, and painfully resigned. ‘Hell, I could be dead by tomorrow.’

‘Don’t say that.’

‘S’true.’

‘Doesn’t make it easy to hear.’

Dan reached out and felt around on the blankets for Phil. ‘Where are you?’ he murmured.

Phil took his wrist and moved his hand to rest on his leg. ‘Here.’

Dan frowned. ‘Where’s your face?’ 

Phil guided his hand up so it rested against his cheek. Dan’s face softened a little, and he passed his thumb gently over Phil’s skin. 

‘God. I wish I could say I’d know you blind, but I’m terrified that I’ll forget. So -’ he coughed, sputtered a little, lurching forward. ‘M’going to ask you to do something for me.’

‘What is it? I’ll do it.’ 

Dan smiled a little. ‘Record a voice memo of you saying exactly what you look like. Even the little things. Just… so I can listen to it sometimes.’

They recorded it that evening, and Phil decided to go into the bathroom to do it, mumbling a quick ‘be right back’ to Dan, who murmured something unintelligible back. There was a mirror in the bathroom, and as he started into it he realised that Dan probably knew his face better than he did.

Placing Dan’s phone on the edge of the counter, he braced his hands on either side of the sink and stared at his own haggard reflection. Taking a deep breath, he tapped the record button.

‘My full name is Philip Michael Lester. I’m around 6’2, and, uh…’ he glanced back at himself, figuring he’d start with the basics. ‘I’m pretty pale. I have blue eyes with a bit of yellow in them, and hair that’s cut short on the sides with a fringe that goes to the left. It’s dyed black, and is ginger naturally.’ He smiled a little, the words coming easier now. ‘I have pretty bad posture because of some back problems. I stand with my thumbs hooked in my pockets. I stick my tongue out a bit when I smile. My nose has a little bump in it from breaking it when I was a kid. I have hands that you like to call spidery, because my fingers are so long. I have freckles all over my back that you sometimes connect the dots between when we’re lying in bed. That’s… about it.’ He looked down. ‘That’s me.’

As he was about to hit the stop button, he hesitated.

‘Also,’ he continued, much quieter this time, ‘I love you a whole lot, bear. I never want you to doubt that.’

Then, finally, he hit stop.

By the time he’d emerged from the bathroom, Dan was asleep in his bed, his face almost relaxed. He looked peaceful, the pale white light of the rain casting soft shadows across his face.

Phil decided to go downstairs for a coffee. He’d show Dan the audio in the morning. 

It was busy as usual downstairs, and Phil felt strangely detached from the crowd. Almost as though he was floating. The cafe staff knew him, knew his order - he only had to wave, and they’d nod and bring it over. He was distinctly different. Not quite out of place - no, the exact opposite. He was in place here, in the hospital where his best friend was slowly dying.

That bothered him.

When later he got back upstairs, Dan was still sound asleep, his heart monitor beeping steadily and quietly beside him.

There was enough space in the bed for him. He climbed in, his head against Dan’s shoulder, absolutely exhausted. It was as though a month’s worth of tiredness had just hit him, and he was gone in minutes.

-

Phil woke before Dan. 

The sunlight was weak, tinting the room a soft shade of yellow.

He looked up at Dan. He hadn’t moved from the position he’d fallen asleep in, nor had he been roused by a headache in the night.

The heart monitor beeped steadily on. 

Carefully, so as not to disturb Dan, Phil shuffled off the bed and stood, stretching, cracking his neck. Breakfast seemed like a nice idea. He usually didn’t bother - Dan vomited a lot in the mornings, and it tended to put him off.

So, he made his way downstairs, feeling almost well-rested for the first time in a while. 

Sitting in the cafe this early in the morning was pleasant, and he ended up spending almost an hour there - the barrage of day visitors hadn’t yet arrived - and let himself enjoy the peace with a bagel and a cup of black coffee. Dan’s parents were coming tomorrow, so they could be there when it happened.

It would be soon. 

He pushed that thought away quickly. They still had time. Today, he would show Dan the audio, and they would rewatch Game of Thrones. There were a million little things that would still happen. That cheered him up a little, and he resolved to enjoy them while they lasted. It would do Dan no good to have him moping around. If there was any time for him to be positive, it was now. 

So he finished his bagel, drank the last dregs of his coffee, and made his way back upstairs.

Several nurses were standing outside the room, Dr. Hunt amongst them.

Phil felt his smile falter a little. 

‘What’s going on?’ he asked.

Hunt looked up and started a little when she saw him. Her face was grim. 

‘Hello, Phil. I was just looking for -’

‘What’s going on?’ he repeated, more urgently this time, stepping forward. ‘Is he okay? Tell me he’s okay.’

An expression that looked almost like pain crossed Hunt’s face. ‘I’m so sorry, Phil. He’s non responsive.’

It didn’t comprehend. It wasn’t real.

‘It would seem he has fallen into a coma. It’s unlikely he’ll wake up again.’

There was no air in the room. ‘Ever?’

She shook her head.

He swallowed hard. ‘Let me see him.’

Hunt stepped forward. ‘Phil, you should probably know -’

‘Let me through, I need to see him -’

‘Phil -’

‘Let me through!’

He pushed past them and into the room, where another nurse stood over Dan, fiddling with something on one of the monitors around him. Dan still hadn’t moved from where he had fallen asleep the night before, and Phil felt as though he was going to vomit. When had it happened? When -

‘Oh God, oh God, Dan -’ he choked out, rushing over to him and placing his hands on both sides of his face. ‘Jesus Christ, no. Wake up, it’s me, Dan, it’s me…’

The nurse moved to comfort him and he dodged away, burying his face in Dan’s shirt, feeling his breaths come too fast. 

‘It wasn't supposed to happen like this,’ he mumbled. ‘You wanted to – you wanted me to be there – oh God –’

Phil lost it.

Spots clouded his vision and he felt himself stumble away from the bed and into a wall, then slide to the floor as the nurse ran over to him. Air wouldn’t come, yet he could hear his breath whistling in his throat, his pulse roaring in his ears, and Dan was lying there on the other side of the room looking so goddamn peaceful. He was vaguely aware of the nurses around him, saying things like ‘panic attack’, and trying to get him to his feet. There was no point. It was over. He never wanted to get up again.

Somehow, they managed to get him standing, and he swayed into the wall behind him. His vision tunnelled until all he could see was his best friend asleep in a bed mere feet away from him, looking for all the world as though he was just taking a nap. 

Phil pushed away from the nurses and half-stumbled over to Dan. His head was resting on his own shoulder, lolled to the side, and his lips were slightly parted. His chest rose and fell slightly – the only indication that there was any life left in him. He was so still, and Phil hated it, dear God how he hated it.

As two nurses came over and started checking Dan’s vitals, Phil realised something. He was going to have to tell Dan’s parents. They'd be here tomorrow morning, expecting to be able to talk to their son for the last time. There were other people, too; his friends – their friends, Phil’s parents, and a few million people on the Internet.

Except, maybe not. The latter didn't have to know. They could – he could put off telling them until it was over.

Over. The end was so, so close.

Phil looked over at Dan. He may as well have been gone already, for how terribly still he was.

The initial panic had reared its head without warning, then disappeared again just as fast. Phil felt absolutely nothing. There was a huge void inside him where the person asleep next to him should be. 

-

They ran some tests on Dan the following afternoon, to see if he responded to any stimuli. There was nothing. He couldn’t even breathe on his own. Phil didn't suppose there was much point in them trying anymore. He was about as likely to wake up as a rock. Dan would have laughed at that. 

It still hadn't quite sunk in that Phil would never get to talk to him again. 

There was one thing they tried that Phil hadn’t expected - they turned off his life support. Hunt explained that it was basically giving him a chance to live on his own.

It didn’t work. Dan did not breathe, did not move, and his heart rate plummeted as Phil’s beat into his throat.

‘Turn it back on, turn it back on, he’s dying -’ Phil had almost shouted, panicking, gripping the edge of Dan’s hospital bed so hard his knuckles turned white, unable to even look at Dan. He wasn’t good at this. 

He sat with Dr. Hunt in her office, staring at the wall as she spoke quietly to him, explaining the why’s and the when’s of the situation to him. All the things he didn't fucking care about anymore. Nothing mattered, did it? Dan was as good as dead. 

To put it simply, she’d said, Dan had had a brain haemorrhage during the night. He was brain dead – there was nothing left of Dan in there. He had been reduced to a shell. 

There was only one question that Phil needed the answer to, because he'd made a promise. ‘How long?’

‘It's pretty much up to you, know. His wishes were that you take control, should this happen. But his bodily processes will begin to shut down over the next week or so, so for the sake of his dignity I would recommend it happens sooner rather than later.’ Her tone was businesslike, but her face gave her away. ‘I’m so sorry, Phil. He was so lovely. We’re all going to miss him. I can't imagine –’

‘No, you can’t.’

She blinked, but continued. ‘When do you think would be best? We can have things arranged so people are ready when it's time.’

Phil swallowed hard. ‘Well, his parents are here. I’m here. Everything is in order – he sorted a lot of stuff out under my nose. I guess… it could be the day after tomorrow.’

‘Good idea. Once again, I’m so sorry for your loss. Dan was loved by everyone here.’

‘You say that to everyone, though. It’s part of the script.’

A tinge of pain broke through her professional front. ‘It doesn’t make losing a patient any easier.’

Phil stared resolutely at his lap. ‘You don't even know him,’ he said softly.

She was quiet.

‘He's a YouTuber, you know. Makes videos – we both do. We’ve got millions of subscribers. Him... passing is going to kill all of them.’ He looks up. ‘I’m never going to be able to escape him. They’ll never let him really die. Not online, at least.’

Silence.

‘I've known him for seven years, but it may as well have been my whole life. So don't talk to me about missing him. You have no idea. No idea –’ his voice broke as he snarled out the words, and he swiped a hand aggressively across his eyes. Standing so suddenly that his chair scraped backwards, he gave her a cold nod. ‘Thank you for your time.’

He hurried down the corridor with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, clenched into tight fists. It was as though tremendous amount of energy was caged inside him. An unfamiliar, unpleasant rage had taken over him – he wanted to hit something, to break something, to do anything. He was useless. There was nothing he could do about this situation, and it killed him.

Back in Dan’s room, his mother sat holding his hand, staring straight at his face. His father was at his feet, his head in his hands, elbows braced on his knees. Phil stopped in the doorway, suddenly feeling very much like an intruder. He hovered uncertainly in the doorway, leaning against the frame. As Dan’s mother turned to him and gave him a small, sad smile, he was very sternly reminded that this wasn't just his pain.

He sat down in his usual spot, staring at his lap. Dan’s mum’s eyes didn’t leave him.

‘When?’ she said quietly.

He didn’t look up. ‘Day after tomorrow.’

She was silent for a moment. ‘Oh.’

There was a long pause.

‘So soon?’

Phil sighed. ‘There's not much point keeping him around anymore.’ He glanced over at Dan. ‘He’s barely here in the first place.’

Dan’s mum’s mouth thinned into a hard line, and his dad made a quiet, muffled noise that sounded something like a sob.

Phil felt a little bad for not feeling anything. Yet, no – he did feel something. Relief. A strange, incomplete kind of relief; as though a weight had been lifted partially off his shoulders. 

He was so, so tired.

-

Phil cried that night, because Dan looked so young when he was asleep. 

He sat next to Dan's head, one hand gently stroking his face, unable to shake the thought of a much younger Dan sleeping in Phil's bed eight years ago, face slack and sweet and heartbreakingly beautiful. He'd fallen completely head over heels for that goddamn face.

A harsh, choked noise tore itself from his throat. He'd sell his soul to go back to then.

On that particular night, Phil had reached out to touch Dan's cheek while he slept, and Dan had blearily opened his eyes, confused, then smiled contentedly when he saw Phil. For the first few months of their relationship, he'd always give Phil this look that was so full of amazement and lovestruck giddiness that Phil would feel like the most important person on earth. Those looks lessened over time, replaced by a softer fondness and warm, familiar love. 

No one had ever made Phil feel as on top of the world as Dan did, and no one had ever made him feel as low as he did right now, crying like a child over all their lost time.

-

‘Hello?’

‘Hi, Mum.’

‘Phil! I – oh dear. How are you doing, love? What's happening? Any news?’

A long silence.

‘It’s tomorrow, Mum.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s going to happen tomorrow.’

Another silence.

‘Oh.’

Dead air hummed on the line.

‘I’m so sorry, Phil.’

‘Don’t be. It’s his time to go.’

‘...He was so young. I’m going to miss him so much. Such a lovely young man… so awful...’

‘You’re talking about him in past tense, Mum.’

‘Sorry, sorry, it's just…’

‘I know.’

Another silence.

‘I have to go now.’

‘Okay, sweetheart. I know it doesn't mean much, but... try to stay strong. I love you so much.’

‘Love you too, Mum.’

The sound of the dial tone clashed with the soft beeping of Dan’s heart monitor.

-

It would be in the early evening.

Phil sat quietly in the room, twisting his ring round and round his finger. Dan’s parents had gone to the bathroom. 

If there was a time for him to say anything he wanted Dan to know, it would be now.

Except, it had all been said already. There were no more secrets between them. Nothing left to say, nothing more to declare. 

The silence screamed. The air was heavy and tense – as though it were poised on the edge of a great cliff. It felt almost oppressive. 

He cleared his throat, just to hear the sound. His foot tapped lightly on the floor, the tiny noise like timpani in Phil’s ears.

Time moved at the pace of a slug. He felt as though he should be doing something.

The clock read 1:34PM.

It would be in the early evening. 

-

It would be hours.

PJ had insisted upon picking Phil up afterwards, saying he absolutely shouldn't be alone.

Phil went through his phone gallery.

The Singapore aquarium. Dan’s face lit in soft blue light. Phil pulling a stupid face. Dan mid-laugh, his hand reaching for the camera, corners of his eyes creased with love. They hadn’t posted that one.

He got as far back as the Japan trip, then stopped. It was getting too much.

It would be hours.

-

7:00PM.

Two nurses and Dr. Hunt joined them in the room. 

Phil felt the weight come crashing down on his shoulders again. He was Atlas, and Dan was the heavens, and he’d just been told to drop his burden.

The life support switch glared at him.

Phil sat in his chair, trying not to listen as Dan’s mum and dad murmured to him, holding both his hands and stroking his cheeks. 

It was time. He felt as though he should be violently shaking.

It only occurred to him that he’d been forgetting to breathe when his chest spasmed.

‘Okay, Phil. Whenever you’re ready,’ Hunt said gently.

His heart skipped a beat.

Standing up slowly, he took careful, measured steps towards the bed, every conversation he'd ever had with Dan playing simultaneously in his head. 

‘Can I – can I sit with him, once it's done?’ Phil asked tentatively. 

Hunt nodded. 

He swallowed hard, and turned to the life support machine, staring at the switch Hunt had showed him. His heart pounded in his throat.

Quickly, he leaned down and spoke quietly into Dan’s ear, placing a careful hand on his skeletal shoulder. 

’I just – I just wanted to say thank you for – for the time we had,” he murmured, his voice cracking. ‘It wasn’t enough. You don’t need to worry about that anymore, though, or worry about anything. You did so well.” He squeezed his eyes shut, holding himself together. ‘I love you. I love you so much. Listen, I’m going to – I’m going to turn this thing off now, and you can go. You’re done. No more fighting. You can –“ he bit back the choked sound that ripped its way up his throat. “You can sleep.”

He stood, taking a long, hard look at Dan’s face. Then, steeling himself, he reached up and pressed the switch. 

The screen went blank.

It would be minutes.

Phil hurried back over to Dan and sat down carefully on the bed, staring at Dan’s face, blank and slack with sleep. Death?

Impulsively, he leaned down and pressed his face into Dan’s chest and curled his fingers in the fabric of his t-shirt. The faint, steady thudding of his heartbeat in Phil’s ear was like torture.

Dan did not breathe. All the air was gone from the room.

‘I’m here,’ Phil murmured almost inaudibly. ‘I love you.’

_Thud, thud, thud._

‘I know you're hanging on, Dan, because you're... stubborn, and you're you, but you don't have to anymore. It's okay. You can go.’

_Thud, thud, thud._

‘Please, Dan,’ Phil breathed, squeezing his eyes shut. 

It would be seconds.

_Thud, thud –_

Dead silence in the room. Phil listened intently, eyes closed. 

Time stopped.

Dan’s heart tripped, stuttered, then gave one grand pause that seemed to stretch out endlessly. 

A final pair of weak, faint beats, then nothing.

A great, big nothing.

Phil did not move. 

A nurse moved in and placed her fingers gently on Dan’s wrist, waiting there for a moment, head tilted. Then she looked up at Dan’s parents and gave a small nod.

Phil registered the sound of Dan’s mother doubling over in her chair, hand pressed hard over her mouth as his father held her.

Still, Phil did not move.

‘Phil, you need to let go now,’ Hunt said softly, her voice steady but gentle. 

Phil didn't reply. He closed his eyes tighter and fisted his hands in Dan’s shirt. It wasn't real if he couldn't see it.

‘Phil…’

He inhaled once, breathing in Dan’s familiar smell – tea and something else distinctly _him_ – then stood, detaching himself from Dan in one fluid movement. His index finger was the last part of him to touch Dan. 

Part of him didn't dare turn away, so he walked backwards to the door, staring at Dan, trying to commit every single detail of this scene to memory. A nurse walked with him, steadying him, looking up in concern at his face. He felt once again as though he'd been dropped to the bottom of the ocean. Water filled his ears, deafening him, crushing his body. Everything was muted. He was completely numb.

The husk lying on the hospital bed in front of him did not seem right. It looked almost like a wax figure – a poor imitation of the real thing. _That’s not my Dan,_ he thought. _That’s not him._

Just as the doorway drew close, the reality that he was about to walk away from Dan for the last time hit him and he froze. _It's not real._

He hurried back forward, then leaned down and pressed a kiss to Dan’s forehead, stroking his thumb across his cheek.

‘’M proud of you, bear,’ he whispered.

Then he turned his back and left the room. 

The corridor stretched out seemingly endlessly ahead of him. He was vaguely aware of a nurse hurrying to catch up with him. 

Downstairs, as he passed the café, Lillian caught his eye. He kept his gaze straight forward, trying not to look at her.

‘Phil, hi! Are you okay? I haven't seen you in ages – I’m just here to pick up some medicine for Andrea. How’s Dan?’

Phil looked over at her. ‘He’s good. He died about ten minutes ago.’

She stopped in her tracks, shellshocked, and Phil kept on walking.

PJ’s car was parked on the kerb outside the hospital. Phil walked straight to it, almost in a trance, and got in without saying a word. 

PJ stared at him. His eyes were a little red. ‘It's over, isn't it?’

Phil nodded.

A long pause. ‘How do you... feel?’

He shakes his head slightly. There are no words for this.

‘Do you want me to stay tonight? I don't want you to feel alone –’

‘No. I need… I need quiet. And space. Lots of space.’

‘Okay. That's okay too.’

Phil looked over at him. ‘You think I’m weird for not crying.’

PJ shook his head, but didn't reply.

‘Truth is, I did most of my grieving while he was still alive.’

PJ grimaced in pain and turned his head away. ‘Fucking hell, man.’

They drove home in silence. Phil was numb.

He felt like a helium balloon with no string. Nothing anchored him. He was floating up, up, away from everything.

PJ hugged him when they arrived, and Phil let him, closing his eyes because he knew he’d lose it if he didn't. 

-

The flat was dead silent. 

Dan was everywhere. 

Phil was wrong. He wasn’t numb. This was like walking through a thorn bush.

He found himself in the kitchen, looking through the cupboards for something. He wasn’t quite sure what.

A mug. 

He pulled it out, and stared at it. There was a sticker on the side that had somehow escaped washing up. Phil recognised it – Dan had put it there after peeling it off his arm, where Phil had stuck it. 

A twist of the knife, then it was suddenly ripped out.

He let the mug fall from his hand. It shattered with a cosmic crash.

-

Phil fell asleep tangled in grey bedsheets that smelled of tea, and something else distinctly _him._

**Author's Note:**

> “We were promised sufferings. They were part of the program. We were even told, 'Blessed are they that mourn,' and I accept it. I've got nothing that I hadn't bargained for. Of course it is different when the thing happens to oneself, not to others, and in reality, not imagination.”
> 
>  
> 
> _― C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed_
> 
>  
> 
> this came out a lot longer than I originally intended.
> 
> thank you to everyone who has helped me actually finish this!! what started off as an angst dump actually turned into something i think i'm proud of, which is nice for a change!!
> 
> do leave a comment i crave validation and feedback


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